


I could be the best time of your life

by Lestradesexwife



Series: I could be the best time of your life. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, But Mostly Plot, Dom/sub, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post Reichenbach, occasional porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-23 17:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 22,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to 221b after three years, mostly spent chasing after Moran. John and Greg are John and Greg. Sherlock isn't sure what to do. John is a domestic octopus. Greg is nervous. </p><p>John and Greg spent a lot of the hiatus trying to prove what they both know: Sherlock was real. </p><p>The spaces left behind by Sherlock are filled in around the edges but never completely disappear. </p><p>The title from a song by Charles Perry "I could be the best time of your life" which I may have listened to an unhealthy number of times while writing this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not according to plan.

Sherlock knew exactly how he was going to return from the dead. Well almost exactly. John was a bit of a loose variable. His reaction could not be entirely predicted. 

But Sherlock knew exactly what he was going to do. To that end he let himself into Baker street while John was at his tedious job and Mrs. Hudson had gone out to the shops. He climbed the seventeen steps and opened the door to the flat. To await John's return with steepled fingers in his own leather arm chair.

Immediately on opening the door to the sitting room his plan fell to pieces. Except for the wall paper and the curtains he would have thought he was in the wrong building. Sherlock stepped back out into the hall and shut the door, he blinked a total of three times rapidly in succession and then opened the door again and took a half step into the room. Nothing had changed from his previous attempt to enter the room. However, everything had changed since he had been removed in handcuffs three years ago.

His cow skull was gone, replaced with a Van Gogh print (purchased at the National Gallery and framed in a generic Swedish frame.) All of his books were gone, and in their place sat some of John's medical journals, but the majority of the shelves contained spy novels and DVDs . Sherlock's mental calculator took over and helpfully informed him that there were over a thousand DVDs on the shelves (1035 to be exact.)

All the furniture was new as well. Sherlock made a quick sweep of the room, carefully not touching anything. He discovered that the furniture was not new, it was indeed at least five years out of current fashion, but it was all different from what he had left behind. Squishy hideous arm chairs and a much shorter sofa all arranged to face towards the television. (It had taken Sherlock weeks and several tedious trips to interior design shops to find a sofa that he could comfortably stretch out on.)

Sherlock turned to the kitchen, he hadn't expected to find his experiments or even his equipment still on the table. Not given John's constant nagging in that regard. But even the kitchen felt different. It was obviously being used to prepare meals on a regular basis. There was a bowl of fruit in the centre of the table, dishes in the drying rack and a faint lingering odor of coffee. He did not open the fridge, he could tell from the door handle that there was nothing biohazardous inside.

He moved down the hall to his bedroom. Pausing briefly before he opened the door, he had hoped to find the flat intact, a moment preserved against the flow of time. His room though, surely his room John would have preserved. But when he opened the door he was not surprised to find that again everything was different. The bed had been moved to the other side of the room. His framed periodic table was gone, replaced with a James Bond poster. There were night stands under the windows, both with alarm clocks.

Sherlock's brain stuttered for a second. Two clocks meant two people sharing the bed. But John had left on his own this morning and there definitely wasn't anyone else in the flat now. He moved to the closet for more data on the mysterious interloper. Suits, ties, John's jumpers and trousers. Nothing out the the ordinary for the good doctor's wardrobe. Next he carefully opened the drawers, noting the depth to which they had been closed before glancing inside. He made a small noise of frustration as again he found nothing to give him any clues as to whom John was sharing a bed with.

Closing the drawer he realized he was running out of time. John would be returning from work soon. Sherlock could return to the sitting room and resume his plan. Albeit without his preferred chair and with a much less impressive angle on the door. He returned to the sitting room to search for further clues. There were no bills on the desk, but there was a paper shredder tucked under the desk with a full basket. He didn't have time before John returned to examine the contents, not without making a mess that would be noticed if the contents required Sherlock to retreat. 

He spun on his heel and exited through the hallway door, taking the stairs two at a time to the upper floor. Perhaps John's old room had been converted into an office, something to provide him with more data so he could adjust the plan for his return. He opened the door and strode in, flipping on the light against the gathering darkness. In the instant that the light came on in the room his heart cracked and he let out a small broken noise.

This room was exactly the same. The bed was made with brutal hospital corners, the walls undecorated. The desk was clear but for the room's only additions, sitting in a small glass case was a tie pin, a pair of diamond cuff links and the deer stalker.

Sherlock's right hand was still on the door knob, his left just inches from the light switch. He reached out again and turned off the light, stepping into the room in darkness and closing the door. He moved quietly to the desk, lifted the chair and pulled it back. He removed his coat and draped it over the back of the chair before sitting down. He bent to untie and remove his shoes, picking them up together and placing them under the desk. Then he sat back on the hard desk chair to wait for John to return to the flat.

"Really John? You kept the ear hat?"


	2. Objects in Motion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock 'settles' in to wait for John to come home.

Sherlock reclined in the darkness of John’s room, his eyes adjusting to the minimum amount of light that filtered through the curtains. He allowed himself to examine what little evidence he had been able to gather. Another person spent a significant amount of time at Baker street. Staying over night often enough to require a second alarm, but not often enough to have accumulated spare clothing or be given a share in the chest of drawers. He cursed himself for not checking the bathroom. There would likely be some basic toiletries which would have given him more to work with. He glanced around this room again, but the Spartan interior was almost entirely John. It must mean something that this room was untouched, and un-lived in, although it was obvious that Mrs. Hudson was up here regularly to dust. There was no way to know if John spent time in this room. Did John's partner know that this room was even part of 221B?

Sherlock leaned forward and gently opened the top drawer of the desk, in the dim light he could see neat stacks of papers. Sherlock recognized these as well, John had written up narrative versions of his blog, long rambling expositions of his and Sherlock's exploits. They were significantly better than the blog entries, at least John included more of the details of the work. But they also included more of John's _feelings_ and Sherlock had been unable to hide his scorn. He felt a pang of guilt now, realizing he had been a bit not good. John never scolded Sherlock if he said something a terrible about John, John would defend other people. He went out for air, or down to the pub when Sherlock was cruel to him. Even the morning at Bart's when Sherlock had arranged for John to leave, John's anger at Sherlock was channelled through concern for Mrs. Hudson.  
He ran his fingers over the edges of the paper, John hadn't written up the last case. At least not "properly" as John thought of it. Sherlock didn't think of the case of the kidnapped children as a separate case at all. It was just another chapter in Moriarty's long game. 

He pushed the drawer closed and opened the next one down, this one contained John's notebooks. Full of his scribbled notes, written quickly when John thought Sherlock wasn't looking. Sherlock had annotated the earlier ones, adding in all the things that John had missed. He'd tried to copy John's handwriting too, until John could no longer tell which notes he had written himself and which were Sherlock's additions. Sherlock sighed in frustration, there was nothing here that would give him any clues. Without data it was pointless to speculate, but Sherlock could not help but picture the woman John was likely entertaining. In his mind she was a jumble of all the women John had dated before, with just a dash of Molly Hooper. He scrubbed at his eyes, trying to erase the image and calm his mind. 

The unfortunate placement of John’s room would not allow him to watch the street but he knew that John would arrive home at any time in the next fifteen minutes. Not enough time to go down to the bathroom without risking John discovering him. Sherlock could not have John finding him in anything less than strictly controlled circumstances. He needed to be poised when John entered the room. Sherlock was afraid of what would happen if John caught him standing or moving. He was afraid that he would be unable to prevent himself from rushing to the doctor, pulling him close and not being able to let go. And under these circumstances that would be unacceptable. 

It was simple physics, if John was in motion he could continue easily, Sherlock had plans to counter all of John’s possible reactions. But these plans had all been based on the assumption, _stupid always missing something_ , that John had been alone all this time. Sherlock hadn’t had any contact with anyone directly since he had left Molly. He had made contacts briefly, connections necessary to accomplish his goals. But nothing that would require him to purchase a second alarm clock.

He was becoming restless, after all this time away. But he could not go down and wait for John. Not without knowing who else might walk in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very short, I am sorry. It was written after Not according to plan, but the next chapter switches to John's POV and I didn't have that much more to say.


	3. John does the shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's rituals.

John was rooting through a bin of bargain DVDs, looking for something that he hadn’t already seen. He wasn’t sure which would come first, the shelves at Baker street collapsing under the weight or the bin letting him down. He was hoping for something funny, or maybe science fiction. Or funny science fiction, but he knew that his options were limited and he would take what he could get. “Not today, please.”

It had been a long week, and it was finally Friday. John was looking forward to the weekend, he had a new spy novel to read but he needed a movie. He triumphantly removed Despicable Me Two from the bottom of the bin, he had resisted “kids” movies for a long time when this had started. Now he wasn’t sure why, it was one thing for a grown man to go to a theatre and watch a kid’s movie on his own, but at home he could do what he wanted. Also some of the jokes in these movies… definitely aimed at the parents.

He added the DVD to his basket, along with a frozen “Tuscan Garden” lasagna and a small brick of cheese and headed for the front of the store. He never used the chip and pin machines anymore if he could help it. And there were only a handful of customers ahead of him in line for the teller. He studied the candy rack, although he really didn’t want any sweets it had the benefit of not being the tabloid rack. Three years on and there wasn’t usually anything on the covers, but he didn’t like to take the chance.

John put his shopping on the belt and racked the basket. The girl at the till was familiar to him and she gave him a little smile. “Evening Jen, how’s school?” She scanned his items and took his card. “Good Mr. Watson, thanks! Oh, good choice today, the little yellow guys are my favourite.” He put in his pin while Jen bagged up his shopping. “There’s never enough cheese on these things is there?” she added. He smiled “You can’t have too much cheese. Thanks Jen, have a good weekend.”

He let her cheery smile carry him out of the shop and down the street towards 221b. He was aware that there was probably some gossip about him in the shop. He had bought a DVD there every day for the past three years. And really, who even bought DVD's anymore? John was too old to consider himself 'old school' if that was even what people would call it, he just wasn't comfortable with digital versions of everything. His computer had completely given up on him enough times that he preferred to have physical copies of things, and it was easier to decide what he wanted to watch when he didn't have the entire history of film at his fingertips. He'd also cancelled the television license after Sherlock. It was too painful to watch the news and wonder what he would have thought of it, and he was forever ruined for crap telly. 

(What John didn’t know is that Jen and one of the stock boys did their best to make sure that the bin was full, and that it had a couple good options down at the bottom where no one else would bother to look. They couldn’t figure out if he had seen something already but they knew that it felt important.)

John whistled a few bars of the song that was playing in the shop while he walked home. Friday night, he had a dvd and a frozen dinner, the whole weekend off. His life was far more settled now, but he still went shopping almost every day, alright every day. He should probably start buying dvd's in bulk, but just one a day helped him keep track. He didn't allow himself to think of what he was keeping track of, if he was honest it wasn't strictly accurate anyway. Some nights he worked late, some nights he would be dragged out by his old rugby mates. And it hadn't started right away at any rate, there had been time before he had been able to go out on his own. It still felt like the right way to mark the passage of time. A bit less dramatic than hash marks on the walls at any rate. John smirked as he shifted the bag to his right hand and fished in his pockets for his keys as he walked up the stoop to the front door of Baker street, imagining what Mrs. Hudson would say about the state of the wall paper with over a thousand little hash marks in it. He wiped his feet on the matt and pushed the door shut behind him. As he walked up the stairs he fished the DVD case out of the shopping bag, he opened the door to the sitting room and tossed the case on the coffee table. “Honey, I’m home!” He whispered to himself, as he turned to put the rest of the shopping in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently all of my chapters are short. Writing for Tumblr makes anything over two paragraphs feel like War and Peace, but here you suddenly realize that it doesn't take up more than a screen.
> 
> I don't have a beta, and although I am Canadian and make every effort to ensure that I am British compliant I can't be sure, so if you see a glaring error please please, (seriously please) message me or leave a comment and I will fix it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is domestic.

John took down two tea cups and put the kettle on to boil. He puttered around the kitchen getting ready for dinner while the water boiled. John filled his own mug when the water came to. Leaving the mug on the counter he retrieved a box of mixed greens from the crisper, and a bottle of vinaigrette from the door. He pulled down two bowls and filled them with greens, placing them on the kitchen table with the dressing.

The front door opened and closed, sending a familiar 'thump' through the soles of John's feet. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly upwards as he poured water into the second cup. 

"Tea is just on" John called as Lestrade walked into the sitting room, depositing his brief case next to the coffee table and sliding out of his jacket. Greg tossed the jacket over the back of the nearest arm chair and picked up the DVD case off the table.

"Oh, the little minions are the best. Nice one." He dropped the case back to the table and moved into the kitchen. Taking the mug that John held out to him. "Ta, very much."

"You've seen it then?" John tried not to sound disappointed. He knew that it might be annoying to watch again.

"Yup, took the nieces to see it in the theatre. It was hilarious, I think I liked it better than they did." Greg's eyebrows came together slightly at the salad on the table and the lasagna box on the counter.

"Oi, none of that you. When you start cooking you can choose the food. Also don't pretend you didn't have a roast beef sandwich for lunch today! Besides I put lots of extra cheese on." John reached over and poked Greg in the ribs. "You'll survive one meal a day of vegetarian."

Greg feigned innocence and sipped his tea to hide his smile. John smirked and finished his tea. "Yeah that's what I thought." He put the empty cup in the sink. "After I slaved all day over a cold freezer making you dinner." He turned back to Greg with a smile on his face.

Greg huffed some air over his tea cup and took another sip. "You poor oppressed thing." He sipped again, his brows drawing together again. "John, I got a notice from Interpol today. Sebastian Moran was found dead in Vancouver two days ago. They had originally pegged it as a drug dispute, but the tech guys found some records on a tablet that connected him to a hit in France last year..." Greg trailed off. John knew as much as Greg did about that. In the months after the Fall John and Greg had tried to piece together anything they could on Moriarty. Richard Brook was a total dead end, and Moriarty was almost as bad. If they found a connection to Moriarty from any of the previous crimes it would always end with him. There were no direct connections between any of the crimes that Jim had organized. The only name that came up more than once was Moran. But other than confirming that he did in fact exist Greg hadn't been able to find anything solid on the man. Moriarty seemed to use him as an enforcer, but other than the French hit they hadn't been able to connect him to any actual murders.

Greg had also been frustrated but his inability to investigate directly. He had been lucky to come out of the investigation of the Fall with his job intact. But it was clear that if he was caught poking around in anything that even remotely had Sherlock's name on it he would be sacked. So he fed John whatever he could come up with under the radar. In the end it simply hadn't been enough. John hated that they hadn't been able to clear Sherlock, but after so long he knew that they had tried everything. Without Sherlock there was no reason for Moriarty to show his face again. But there had also been a decided lack of clever crimes since the Fall. So they had no new place to start looking. Moran had been their only hope, if they could have found him then they could prove that Moriarty was real.

The oven buzzed and John turned to pull the lasagna out. Setting it on the cook top to cool before serving it. "Do you think we will be able to get anything from the Canadians that will help?" John pulled out the chair closest to him and sat down, opening the vinaigrette and pouring some on his salad.

Greg sighed and sat down as well taking the bottle of dressing from John, their fingers brushing as it passed between them. "I think the Canadians will give Interpol all they have. And I think I will be able to take a look at it. But I don't think any of it will help us."

John grunted and stabbed at his salad. "Of course he would be too bloody clever to leave anything that would connect any dots or lead back to Jim. Still it won't hurt to take a look. What are the chances of you getting a copy of the file for me?"

Greg's eyes developed a sudden mischievous sparkle "What do I get out of this deal then eh?"

John made a noise that was half groan and half chuckle. "You mean other than my continuing to be your house husband? Get me the file and we will negotiate your fee." He stood to get the lasagna from the cooktop and gave Greg's shoulder a squeeze.

Greg admired the lines of John's body as he reached up to pull down plates. "I'm not sure I can afford you."

John laughed at that. "Not on a DI's salary you can't." John dished up two servings of lasagna and brought them back to the table. He put a plate down in front of Greg and leaned over. "It's a good thing your boyfriend is a doctor." And kissed him briefly on the lips. He laughed again as he sat back down. "God anyone listening in would think we are a corny vanilla couple."

Greg didn't answer, but his eyes continued to sparkle in John's direction as he started on his dinner. He agreed with the corny part, but knew better than to say that out loud. Vanilla not so much though. Greg grinned around a bite that was mostly cheese, he was looking forward to "negotiations."


	5. Sherlock is still in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's pov, from John's upstairs bedroom.

Sherlock heard the door of 221B open and close again. The footsteps on the stairs are familiar and his brow creased slightly. Lestrade? What was Lestrade doing here? The warm deep voice said something about minions as he entered the sitting room. Sherlock cursed himself for closing the door to John’s room all the way. With the sitting room door open he could hear that conversation was occurring, but the individual words were obscured by distance and the thickness of the door.

The warm smell of baking cheese and tomatoes filled the air. John was making Lestrade dinner. Why was John making Lestrade dinner? Perhaps it was a Friday night ritual, cheaper than pub nights. But the tone of the conversation was warm. John was laughing at something Lestrade had said. This was more than a friendly dinner, it was casual and intimate.

After dinner they moved back into the sitting room. Each with a bottle of beer from the soft thunk of the refrigerator door closing and the clink of bottles that accompanied them. John put the DVD he had brought home in the player and they settled together on the sofa. 

Together on the sofa? The chairs were pointed at the infernal television why the sofa… Sherlock let out a small huff of breath as his brain caught up with the data. Obvious. Unexpected but in retrospect obvious. Only suits in the wardrobe and pants in the drawers. No obvious female touches throughout the flat, not even something given as a birthday gift and displayed out of necessity.

Sherlock re-arranged some information. John had always asserted that he “wasn’t gay” and “not Sherlock’s date” but he hadn’t once said he was straight either. In the beginning he had dated women, but he hadn’t had time after Christmas and the “boring teacher” incident. Then again he had been jealous of Irene not of Sherlock. And there were the emails to his girlfriends. Altogether inconclusive evidence, and Sherlock hadn’t really been paying attention. (At least he told himself he wasn’t paying attention to John. The pool, Irene’s living room, and when John had almost left him at Baskerville all begged to differ.)

Lestrade though, he couldn’t compute how or why this could have happened. Sherlock supposed it could be a mid-life crisis brought on by Lestrade’s divorce and the crisis Sherlock’s suicide had caused in his career. Suddenly Sherlock was intensely angry, had had to grip the under side of the chair to prevent himself from rushing down the stairs and shouting at Lestrade for toying with John in that way. How dare he use John as a balm for his emotional difficulties! Only the ridiculousness of the image in his head kept him rooted to the chair: John and Lestrade curled up on the sofa, watching what sounded like a children’s movie when Sherlock, in his stocking feet, bursts into the room and starts berating Lestrade for his mid life cradle robbing. (As if John was some fainting Victorian maiden seduced by a roguish older man.) Not the return he had envisioned for himself.

But that image: John and Lestrade curled together on the sofa, maybe under a blanket. Lestrade’s arm around John’s shoulder. His fingers occasionally brushing through John’s hair. John’s hand resting on Lestrade’s thigh, his thumb rubbing slow circles. Laughing together at the inane movie John had brought home. Relaxing slowly into the weekend, disgustingly domestic. And it should be the dictionary definition of boring. But it wasn’t, and when Sherlock exhaled it came out as a grunt. His chest felt tight and his stomach ached. It didn’t matter how they had gotten to this point, they were there, happy and whole and they didn’t need him at all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we have some smut.

John’s right hand was lodged firmly between Greg’s thighs, just a little bit north of his knees. His hand had been wandering during the movie and Greg had eventually given him a look that said “Do you want to turn the movie off?” John didn’t particularly, so Greg had clamped his knees together to prevent any further migration. But now the credits had played themselves out, even the easter egg at the end (one of these days there were going to make a movie without something adorable during the credits, but today was not that day) and John was beginning to feel a loosening of the pressure on his hand.

Greg moved forward and grabbed the remote from the coffee table. Shutting off the telly and DVD player. “I can’t believe I got away with taking kids to see that movie.” He smirked slightly. “Although I am glad you weren’t there, are you sure this isn’t for your libido?” He waggled the remote at John.

John snorted and grabbed the remote from Greg, keeping his right hand on Greg’s leg. He lent forward and replaced the remote on the table, when he settled back his hand was considerably higher up than it had been. “I can’t help it if you are distracting, you were pulling my hair.” The last part of the sentence was illustrated by Greg pulling gently on John’s hair, maneuvering his head up to kiss.

The kiss wasn’t rough, just a slide of lips across each other, the sharing of breath and brief touches of tongue. It ended with John making a small noise in the back of his throat and Greg releasing John’s hair, smoothing his hand over the back of John’s neck and gently squeezing his neck. 

Greg’s smile was knowing. “It has been that kind of a day then? How long do you want?”

John chewed on his bottom lip. “I want as long as you will give me, but I can’t see doing more than ten. If I’m honest.”

Greg chuckled, his smile turning wicked. “Alright then, off you go. I’ll clear up in here and be right in.” John stretched up again and brushed his lips against Greg’s. Then he pulled away and stood. He closed and locked the sitting room door before heading through the kitchen to the bedroom.

Picking up the beer bottles off the coffee table Greg walked into the kitchen and deposited them on the counter. He scraped the plates and bowls into the bin and put them all neatly into the dishwasher. There was left over lasagna and he put it in a container in the fridge, then binned the disposable pan it had come in. He rinsed off his hands and dried them on a tea towel. He wasn’t delaying to give John time, but all the same he knew that it would be worth it to wait a minute before going into the bedroom.

When Greg opened the door John was sitting naked on the wooden desk chair. He had already laced his legs to the chair with red silk rope. The rope wound back and forth from his ankles to just below his knees, anchoring his leg and tied with a quick release that wouldn’t bind if he strained against it. Greg knew that he would be holding another length of rope behind him, waiting for Greg to tie it off. He nodded and closed the bedroom door. Crossing the two steps to the chair he crouched down and checked the ropes around John’s legs, there was enough give in the binding that John would be able to flex his legs, and shift his hips on the chair but they weren’t loose. Straightening up he circled around behind John, running his hands over both of John’s shoulders and down to his wrists. He took the rope that John was holding and wrapped it in a figure eight around his wrists, tying it off around one of the posts on the back of the chair. (They had found a chair with a low back at a vintage furniture store. It was horrible for actually sitting at a desk trying to work, but perfect to prevent any strain to John’s shoulder)

Smoothing back up John’s arms and rubbing over his shoulders Greg said “Christ John, the way you look. You are delicious.” John sighed and shifted his hips up, relaxing back into the chair. The back of the chair was in the middle of his back, but his torso was at a 45 degree angle to the chair, forming an imperfect triangle. Greg smiled and reached down to lightly drag his fingers over John’s erection. Enjoying the warm smooth skin under his fingers and the way John’s cock twitched very slightly at the touch. He pressed a kiss to John’s forehead and turned to the bed.

John had laid out lube and his favourite dildo, as well as the ball gag and a cruder cloth gag. Greg considered the gags before picking up the lube and dildo. Turning back to John he said “I think we will start without putting anything in that pretty mouth of yours. I think I would like to hear about your day.”

John watched as Greg came back around and settled in front of him. “It was more of the same really. There is a nasty bug going round, but when isn’t there? The front desk woman has gone on holiday and the temp is making a fine mess of things…” He trailed off as Greg opened the lube and smeared some on his fingers, John ran his tongue over his lips. “I told Patricia we would come round for her husband’s birthday next weekend.”

Greg nodded as he slipped his hand between John’s legs. “Frank is a good bloke, even if he has terrible taste in football clubs, that will be fun.” Greg’s other hand came up and grasped John’s hip, pulling him forward and adjusting him slightly for better access. His lubed fingertip slid over John’s anus and he applied more pressure, slowly sinking into John’s body. “Did you do what I asked?” Greg had told John to stand with his hands behind his back whenever he was bored or frustrated (waiting for the tube, standing in line for tea at the canteen) and imagine that Greg had wrapped something like spider web around his wrists (something strong but that he could break it whenever he needed to or would be expected to move, but would stick back together whenever John put his hands behind his back again) John stood at something resembling parade rest most of the time anyway, this way he would remember all day that this was coming. 

“Yes, Christ yes,” John moaned as Greg entered him. “On the tube I had to lean on the wall to keep from falling over, all I could think was you pushing me up against a wall, Jesus Greg more…” He twitched his hips up, foiled by the ropes and the angles he groaned and let his head fall back and his eyes shut.

Greg groaned and pushed his finger farther into John’s arse, working it back and forth before adding a second finger and beginning to scissor gently. “Hmm I’d like that very much, push you up against the wall, handcuff and frisk you..” He grinned and shoved his fingers in to the hilt “Push you down and put my cock in your mouth, hmmm but that is for another day.” He pulled his fingers out and lubed up the dildo. “You only think you can do ten eh? That’s a shame, it really truly is.” John arced as much as he could as Greg slid the silicon cock into John’s ass. Holding himself off the chair until Greg pressed the dildo all the way in and then pulled it back out again, giving him one full thrust before pressing John back down onto the chair.

John’s eyes were tightly closed and he was chewing on his bottom lip. Greg knelt up and pressed a kiss to John’s lips. “I think you can do twenty minutes lover.” John groaned “Oh god Please Greg, give it to me.” Greg chuckled and returned to the bed. He picked up the remote for the vibrator in John’s arse and returned to John’s side. “Impatient suddenly are we Doctor? Wait till I get my mobile.” He fished his phone out of his pocket and opened the timer function. Pressing the remote into John’s hand he said “Start your engines… Now” John pressed the controller on the vibrator as Greg started the countdown for twenty minutes.

Then Greg settled down on the bed to see if John would manage to fuck himself for twenty minutes without coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may eventually write a chapter about the two of them out antiquing looking for/finding randomly that chair. Because of reasons.


	7. The longest night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned that Sherlock is trapped in John's bedroom?   
> And apparently the walls are thin.  
> But this is mostly just angst.

Sherlock heard the click of the sitting room door, then muffled foot steps heading into the bedroom. He knew that he should go, that he should pick up his shoes and coat and ghost his way down the stairs and out into the night. He knew that he could do it, get out of Baker Street without the two men downstairs being any wiser. But once he was outside he had no further plan. He might be able to go to Molly, but he hadn’t seen her since the morgue at St. Bart’s and her reaction to his sudden return was unclear.

They hadn’t parted on good terms. Molly had wanted to tell John that Sherlock had survived, she had seen John. She told Sherlock that it was too cruel, that John needed to know. She said that he would want to face whatever ‘Jim’ had planned for them together. Molly couldn’t see that that was the problem, John would want to deal with the snipers. Sherlock had witnessed two men die at Moriarty’s sniper’s hand, lives erased with only inches to spare from Sherlock. The idea of being that close and having John just cease like that… Sherlock had snapped at her. He’d tried to exeunt dramatically although it was foiled by the trainers and generic track suit he had been wearing. Still a slammed door was a slammed door. He had left Molly to deal with Moriarty’s body, and even he did flinch a little at that, she had ensured a closed casket for Sherlock’s burial. And he hadn’t contacted her since, but he was sure that Molly would not let him remain hidden from John again.

The idea of going to Mycroft was even more ludicrous. The last time they had spoken was after Baskerville, Mycroft had come to collect his key card and chastise Sherlock. Mycroft had taken the witness accounts, since there was a tiny speck of a hole in his surveillance at the base of St. Bart’s and the word of the morgue attendant (everyone underestimated Molly Hooper) and agreed to the closed casket. There hadn’t even been a real ceremony, he was after all disgraced, just Mycroft, John and Mrs. Hudson at the grave side. Lestrade and Molly couldn’t attend, Lestrade was under investigation and it would not do for him to have shown up. And Mycroft wasn’t even aware that Molly existed, let alone mattered. No if he showed up at Mycroft’s door he was likely to be whisked away to a secure facility and never see the light of day again. 

His plan had been perfect, but now he was trapped in John’s bedroom in the dark. He was going to come back to Baker Street, as gently as possible reintroduce himself to John. (Which really wasn’t that gentle at all, but John didn’t need gentle not really.) Sherlock had evidence, the conversation with Moriarty on the roof, things from Sebastian Moran’s Vancouver apartment and transaction records showing payments made by Moriarty to the other two killers, albeit in a very random and circuitous route. Sherlock suspected that John would be murderous at first, but he hoped that John would accept what Sherlock had to say and agree to help restore Sherlock’s name. Then he and Sherlock would go to Lestrade at Scotland Yard and hand over all the evidence, explain everything and hopefully that would be enough to start again. If John had proven truly intractable Sherlock would have gone to Lestrade on his own. He was doubly unsure if Lestrade would be forced to arrest him without John there. He wanted either John or Lestrade with him when he went down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat, preferably both.

Sherlock’s brain adjusted some further information. Rooms in his mind palace re-arranging themselves, suddenly locking into one unit. Oh this was actually brilliant. They are all here together! Sherlock’s body jumped, performing an aborted “ah ha” movement that ended with him crouched on the chair flat footed. He froze for a moment, thinking that he had made a noise that someone downstairs would have noticed. When no one barged out of the sitting room to investigate he allowed himself to relax. He was not going to charge downstairs and demand that John and Lestrade listen to him now. He was not going to explain that he had been upstairs all night, hiding. He would wait until morning, arrange himself as much as possible on that horrible furniture downstairs and simply skip a step in his original plan. Instead of having to explain himself twice he could show John and Lestrade the evidence together.

He stood up on the chair and took an overly long step onto the bed, carefully putting his weight down so as not to make the springs creak. As he shifted onto the bed his weight pulled the corners of the sheets free from their hospital corners. Sherlock arranged himself on the bed and settled in to wait for morning. He wouldn’t sleep, he would need to be ready before John and Lestrade woke up. He would wait just long enough here for them to fall asleep and then he would go down to the sitting room to wait for them.

Only once he had settled into his thinking pose did the quiet noises from downstairs register.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg downstairs.

John wasn’t going to make it. He’d been too keyed up all day, playing Greg’s frustration game. At first he had forgotten about it, and he was waiting for the tube with his hands behind his back, standing at an unconscious parade rest. When Greg’s voice had floated into his mind. “Remember that I had you like this, even when you are out in the world. When you are waiting in line at the canteen, know that I have you wrapped up in rope.” John had remembered the feeling of the rope on his wrists. And he was hard in his trousers waiting for the tube. The rest of the day had been more of the same, sliding without thinking into a parade rest and then having something completely filthy Greg had said wash over him.

John turned his head to look at Greg, sitting on the bed just watching John. “All the filthy things you say, has anyone ever washed your mouth out with soap? Do you realize how difficult it is to concentrate on sniffles with you talking about tying me to the table and shagging me senseless playing in the back of my head?”

Greg smiled and looked down at the timer. “That is a fantastic idea sunshine, but I never said anything of the sort. I said I was going to tie you to the table and shag you senseless if you were good. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you trying to distract yourself, I’ll add more time at the end if I think you need it.”

John groaned and dropped his head and shoulders back, biting his lip to prevent the retort that waited on the tip of his tongue to escape, it wouldn’t do any good and Greg would add the extra time. He shifted his arse as far forward as he could on the chair, tilting his hips up and forward until he felt the base of the dildo catch on the edge of the chair. He paused for a second, allowing himself to adjust to the change in position. With the edge of the vibrator on the chair the tempo of the vibration changed, becoming deeper and pressing against the inside of his body. His head rolled and he groaned deep in his throat. 

The position was not comfortable, his weight was supported almost entirely on his calves and the middle of his back. Despite the strain of holding himself up a wave of calm and relaxation passed over John. His eyes were still closed but the furrow in his brow smoothed out, he had been biting his lip, but now the tip his tongue smoothed over his lips. 

John pulled his hips up and away from the edge of the chair. The vibrator caught on the edge of the chair and slid incrementally. He paused at the top of his arch, then pushed down again. Both towards the floor and the chair, holding the vibrator against the chair as he pressed it back in. “Oh… God” John took a deep breath in and held it before repeating the motion. Setting himself up into a rhythm that was designed to last as long as possible. 

After a few minutes he collapsed back onto the chair, the angles were too extreme, his calf muscles were burning from the effort it took to support his weight. The back of the chair was putting an angry red groove into John’s back and his stomach muscles would ache in the morning. He curled his head forward, breathing deeply through his mouth and pulling his shoulders away from the back of the chair as far as he could with the rope tied to the post.

Greg shifted on the bed, leaning forward and preparing to untie John. His time wasn’t up yet but if he had strained something… Greg wouldn’t allow John to do himself any damage.

John heard the noise and shook his head. “I’m fine, just catching my breath.” He took two more deep breaths through his nose and turned his head towards Greg. John settled his shoulders back against the chair and let out the breath he had been holding, locking eyes with Greg. “Christ, Greg. I. want. more” Each word was punctuated by thumbing the control of the vibrator (and the twitch of John’s cock against his stomach). John groaned when he reached the highest setting filling the room with warm amber tones.

Greg didn’t need to be told twice, he abandoned the timer and crossed the room to stand at John’s side.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock upstairs.  
> Synesthesia, yes I think a bit.

John’s upstairs room was glowing with the amber honey scented sounds floating up through the floor boards and heating vents. Sherlock could feel the waves of sound in a way that was not dissimilar to the vibrations from playing his violin. His skin was tingling under his clothing. Sherlock wanted to climb out the window to escape from the noise, but he felt as his clothes had become molecularly bonded to the sheets. He was trapped again.

There was a tidal surge of amber, it filled the room and pushed itself into his lungs. (the first time he had been in the ocean he had been swept off his feet by a wave, this felt the same and he was powerless before it) His brain wanted to curl into a fetal position, try to shut out the sound. His body wasn’t responding, his head was thrown back, fingers scratching at the covers on the bed. He gulped air, but only succeeded in pulling more sound into himself.

The honey rolled away, pulling Sherlock’s head and shoulders up from the bed as it went. He managed to draw one breath, and his brain suggested again that he wasn’t attached to the bed and he could go out through the window and escape this madness. He could come back in the morning, resume his plan and forget this had happened. 

He almost made it off the bed towards his coat and shoes. He had swiveled his hips and was lowering his foot to the floor, suddenly incautious and uncaring of drawing attention to himself in his haste to leave. The electric blue that followed the amber and honey had no direct experiential correlation. Sherlock had never been struck by lightening or stung by a jellyfish, and neither of those things felt like pleasure. He fell back against the bed, his back arching and fingers grabbing handfuls of the sheets. He felt like he was trying to hold himself down while simultaneously heaving himself up out of the bed and away. His breath was coming in sharp quick bursts, and he was covered in sweat. 

The bright blue stung along his nerve endings, causing all the hair on his body to stand on end. He could feel them all against his clothes and he had to clutch the sheets tighter to prevent himself from divesting himself of his clothes. He whimpered as shock after shock of blue ran over him. His hips bucked up against the air, and it was then he recognized that he was hard. He bit his lip and pushed his hips up again, feeling the slide of his pants and the tightness of his trousers, almost painful against the sensitive skin of his erection.

His continued whimpers were acid green and lost in the rising tidal wave of amber honey spiked with bright blue jagged edges. Downstairs John and Lestrade reached their climaxes in a symphony of groans and muttered curses. Upstairs it rolled over Sherlock in a tsunami (honey and jelly fish stings). Afterwards (a long time afterwards) his brain reasserted its dominance and curled Sherlock into a ball, pulling up the edge of the sheets and wrapping him in a tight cocoon. His body allowed his brain to think it was in control long enough to accomplish this before it turned off the lights and Sherlock slept.


	10. On the proper storage of pants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock prepares.

Sherlock woke after four and a half hours. He was warm and heavy from sleep, his suit hopelessly crumpled. He had intended only to rest, poised carefully over the sheets so that when he rose he would be presentable for John and Lestrade in the morning. The bed was also beyond repair now. He wasn’t sure that he would be able to remake it without drawing attention to himself. 

It took two and a half minutes for him to untangle himself from the sheets, moving incrementally to avoid causing the springs of the bed to creak. Another ninety seconds to sit up and place his feet on the floor. A full fifteen minutes passed with him inching his way towards the wardrobe. 

His suspicion was confirmed in the light of his mobile phone “Sentiment, John. This time though I can understand.” he thought. The wardrobe was full of his suits. His shirts were organized by colour. He chose a white one and trousers and a jacket, removing them from the hangers and draping them over his arm. He made his way back to the bed, still careful not to make a sound as he moved. He laid out the clothes on the side of the bed and moved to the dresser. It might be too much, the suits were one thing. He could hope for clean pants and socks though. 

He opened the top drawer to find his sock index faithfully recreated, his shoulders slumped. “John.” He exhaled the name, truly staggered by the devotion of that wonderful man. Something that he felt he had never truly earned, but John gave it anyway without reservation or hesitation. 

Sherlock braced his hands on the dresser and took several deep breaths before removing a pair of socks and closing the drawer again. The next drawer down contained pants and he took a pair of those as well. His fingers brushed against something metal in the drawer and he focused the light of the phone into the corner. His brow furrowed. Why is John keeping his gun with my pants? He tilted his head to the side and stared at the gun for a moment before closing the drawer and turning back to the bed. 

He unbuttoned the top three buttons on his shirt and pulled it up over his head. Tossing it to the other side of the bed. He grimaced as he opened the buttons on his trousers and slid the zip down. He wanted to shower, but that was obviously not possible at this point. If John and Lestrade didn’t toss him out into the street in the morning he would stay here and then he could get cleaned up properly. 

He had been sure that of being able to convince either John or Lestrade to believe him, to accept him back and help him resume his life. He wanted them both back, but he had been preparing himself since he had left Vancouver for the possibility that either or both of them would reject him, that the damage he had done would be permanent. On one hand it seemed to him that this new creature of John and Lestrade together may have healed enough to accept him back easily. On the other, however, perhaps the saying about third wheels would hold true and there would be no space for him. 

Sherlock shook himself, he was standing naked in a room entirely devoted to his memory. If John and Lestrade kept this they would let him come back to them. 

He dropped his dirty clothes into a pile on the bed and began to dress, shifting his weight gently, feeling the fine fabrics cover him. These clothes felt like armour, by the time he had finished dressing he was confident again. He would make John and Lestrade take him back, John would tell him he was brilliant and Lestrade would let him work cases again. Everything would go back to the way it was, well except Sherlock would be in the upstairs room now.

He shivered once and felt goose flesh rise on his skin. He had avoided thinking about what had happened earlier that night. He told himself that he hadn’t been prepared for it, that it was an aberration and that he wouldn’t respond the same way next time.

He moved to the desk and picked up his shoes, retrieved his coat from the back of the chair and began the long quiet journey down the stairs. He would sit in one of the horrible (they had to be Lestrade’s) chairs in the sitting room and wait for John and Lestrade to wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a baby head canon that Sherlock does not wear purple for the return. Because John last saw him in the purple shirt. Sherlock would call me sentimental but he is the one wearing white this morning.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock picked the lock on the sitting room door quietly. At least John and Lestrade had changed the locks in the interval. He slid into the room and shut the door behind him. There was enough light in the room from the street lights through the window for him to navigate the unfamiliar layout of the furniture. He settled in the chair nearest the fireplace. Placing his shoes on the floor in front of him and laying his coat over the back of the chair. He bent down and slid his feet back into his shoes, tightening the laces and brushing away some lint. Then he sat back, steepled his fingers and closed his eyes to wait.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

John woke up first, just as the first grey light started to creep into the bedroom. He rolled over to stare a Greg before leaning in to plant a kiss on his lips. “Wake up sleepy man,” he said quietly “we have many. important. things to do.” Each pause was a peck on Greg’s jaw line. 

Greg was having none of this, he cracked one eye and peered at John. “t’s earrrly. And we do not.” He rumbled, voice thick with sleep. 

John smiled against Greg’s neck, his tongue darting out and flicking at the place where his jaw met his neck, his skin tasted of sleep and sex. John’s hand swept across Greg’s chest flicking gently over his nipples before skimming down to gently grasp Greg’s erection. He pulled his face back so he could watch Greg’s reaction. “You sure there is nothing you needed me to do this morning?”

Greg huffed and twitched his hips up into John’s hand. “Yeah okay, I can think of a few things we can do today.” His arm wrapped around John and he pulled him back down for a kiss. John’s hand moved in slow, long drags and they kissed gently, enjoying the warmth of each other’s body. Greg’s hand wandered over John’s back, holding him close with the lightest almost pressure.

John broke away from the kiss and wormed his way under the blankets, kissing his way down Greg’s torso quickly until he was curled on his knees between Greg’s legs. Greg looked down at the giant lump under the blanket and chuckled. “What are you…ngnnah” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and exhaled deeply to restrain himself from thrusting up into the warmth and wetness of John’s mouth. “Jesus Christ, John.” He took one hand away from his eyes and put it on John’s head over the blanket. John groaned around Greg’s cock and ran his tongue along the under side until his mouth came off entirely. Greg moaned in protest but John’s mouth returned quickly, sliding down to the base and back up until just the tip is balanced on his bottom lip. “Tease” groaned Greg. John slid his finger over Greg’s hole, pressing in gently as he slid back down his cock. This time Greg did thrust up into John’s mouth, “oh fuck yeah” his hips moved back in forth between John’s mouth and finger and he threw his head back.

John allowed him to set the pace, enjoying the feel of his lover’s body. When Greg pulled back off his finger he straightened a second finger and slipped it inside on the next thrust. He angled for Greg’s prostrate and was rewarded with a deep moan and a pressure on his head pushing him down onto Greg’s cock. John rubbed light circles against Greg’s prostate as he thrust with his fingers.

Greg moaned and looked down at the blanket, “God I wish I could see you, you great bloody tease, fuck.” He gripped John’s head tighter and snapped his hips up. “But holy fuck I could come from just this now.”

John groaned and slid his fingers back and out, giving one last shallow thrust before removing his hand and placing it on the bed beside Greg’s hip. He swirled his tongue around Greg’s cock and pulled away from that as well, replacing his mouth with his other hand. Kneeling up he kept the blanket over his head as he moved forward, catching Greg’s right nipple in his teeth. He stroked Greg’s cock once, sliding his hand off the end and taking hold of his own, transferring some of the dampness of his spit to his own dick. Greg’s back arched as John pushed into him, his fingers clawing at the blanket unsure if he was trying to pull it off or keep it covering John.

John held back for a moment, allowing himself to feel completely connected to Greg. It was very warm under the blanket and he felt like they had reached a melting point. He could no longer tell where the sensations in Greg’s body ended and his began. He kissed Greg over his heart “I love you.”

Greg lifted the blanket so he could see John’s face. “I love you too.” 

John smiled and pulled the blanket back down. “I’m going to fuck you until you come, alright?”

Greg smiled and braced his hands against the head board. “Yeah alright, go on then.”

John resumed his grip on Greg’s cock with his left hand and lifted Greg’s hips with his right. (Greg planted his feet and shifted his hips to help) John curled as close as he could to Greg while still giving himself an angle to stroke Greg’s cock. It was hopelessly awkward but the angle was startlingly good and John thrust sharp and quick. 

Greg became a stream of _“John john john john“_ and muttered curses and pleas. Grinding his hips up to meet John’s thrusts and his hand. Until he very nearly snapped the rails he was holding on the head board twisting and arching under John. His orgasm ripping a shout from his throat.

John was still having trouble differentiating between Greg and himself (it was actually quite wonderful, if slightly confusing) he felt Greg’s orgasm as if it was happening in a part of his own body that was very far away. But as Greg shuddered and clenched around him it came closer until it was flowing through him. He could feel his come coursing back into Greg, and it felt like he was pushing pleasure back into Greg.

The waves of sensation robbed him of muscle control and he collapsed down onto Greg. His heart stuttering and pounding and his breathing shallow. 

Greg recovered first and pulled the blanket back off John. “Alright?”

“Jesus, yes. Thanks, air good.”

Greg smiled and pulled John up so his head was cradled on his shoulder. “Morning.”

John brushed his lips against Greg’s cheek. “Morning.”

And apparently their cerebral cortexes had just about enough conversation for the morning and within moments they were both asleep again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All together in the same room!

It helped that Sherlock was already in his mind palace. He’d been reviewing evidence and planning how best to broach the subject with John and Lestrade. He simply opened a new room and recorded all his reactions, treating the waves of sound and his responses to them as an experiment. When it was over he closed the door on the room and nailed some boards over it. He would try to delete it later (or so he told himself) but that would require playing it all back and he couldn’t do that now. John and Lestrade could come out of the room without warning, he needed to prepare for them.

Behind the boarded up door the room looked like a Jackson Pollack painting in three dimensions. Layers on layers of intermingled colours, amber, blue and blood red. From a distance it almost looked like static or white noise on a television, but up close it was patterns and depth. The parts greater than the whole, like a fractal, the closer you look the more complex it becomes.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Greg woke first the second time. He rolled his head to the side and kissed John on the nose before pulling his arm out from under John’s head. John made a vague grumbly noise that sounded like coffee and rolled onto his other side, pulling the blanket up under his nose.

Greg laughed and pulled his terry cloth robe off the hook on the back of the door. Shrugging into it and tying the belt around his waist before opening the bedroom door (a locked door hadn’t proven to be a deterrent to Mrs. Hudson’s desire to feed her boys.) He went into the bathroom and relieved himself, he washed his hands and looked at himself in the mirror, contemplating a shave. “Nah, it is the weekend a little stubble never killed anyone.” He went through to the kitchen, whistling tunelessly to himself. He flipped on the kettle and pulled down two mugs and the instant coffee.

He put both hands on the counter, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears. He dropped his head between his shoulders and took a deep breath before turning to the sitting room. “Shit. Am I dead or hallucinating?” he asked.

“Lestrade.” somehow that one word in Sherlock’s familiar voice managed to convey “Don’t be daft, honestly I don’t know how I put up with you.” 

“Alright then. Just don’t go anywhere. I’ll just…” Greg turned on his heel and went back into the bedroom. He opened the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of jeans and a jumper for John, and himself. He put John’s clothes down gently on the bed, and went to the dresser for pants. He dressed himself quickly before kneeling down next to John’s side of the bed.

“John, love wake up.” He could hear the kettle gurgling in the kitchen and it clicked off. Maybe they would have scotch instead. “John, come on get dressed.”

John’s blinked his eyes open. “What is it?” He was instantly alert when he saw the look on Greg’s face. “Greg what is going on?” he sat up and began pulling on his clothes. 

Greg looked at the door, “Jesus, fuck, bugger.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m not dead or hallucinating.” he mumbled into his hands.

John’s skin prickled and he grabbed Greg’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. “What. Happened.”

Greg looked up and met John’s eyes. “He’s back, just sitting in my chair when I went out to make coffee.”

“He’s…” John looked out the bedroom door, “in your chair?”

“And I’m not dead or hallucinating.”

John was already out the door of the bedroom before Greg finished speaking. He stopped in the doorway of the kitchen and half turned back to Greg. There was something desperate in John’s eyes.

Greg reached out and took John’s hand, giving it a quick squeeze. John squared his shoulders and nodded his head (just a tiny movement of his chin). He crossed the rest of the kitchen and stopped again on the edge of the sitting room.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped up and met John’s. “John.” The word took all the air out of Sherlock’s lungs. He had so much more to say, but with John actually there and staring at him he felt like he had been punched in the gut. He was suddenly glad that he was seated, he felt as though he might faint and he dropped his hands to the arms of the chair and gripped them tightly.

John stood in the doorway for a moment. He checked Sherlock over for any signs of physical damage. Finding none he raised his chin slightly, turned back into the kitchen and flipped the kettle back on. He put away the coffee and pulled out the tea and a third mug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh that's fluffy! Is it fluffy? Why is it fluffy?


	13. Indifference

Sherlock gasped as John turned away from him. _“John. Please.”_ It was barely a whisper, but it sounded harsh and loud in the quiet of the flat. He tried to push himself up from the chair, if he could just get up he could… he didn’t know what to do. Anger, violence or tears and fainting he was prepared for those. But this, making tea? Sherlock had no idea where to go from this. Apparently his body agreed because he was unable to co-ordinate his limbs enough to move from the chair.

The water boiled and John poured three cups of tea. He turned and handed the first mug to Lestrade. Sherlock took a breath in and tried again. “Lestrade, I…” Lestrade held up a hand in Sherlock’s direction, cutting off the rest of the sentence. He and John were standing in the kitchen apparently having a telepathic conversation, they weren’t blinking enough to be using morse code but they weren’t speaking either. Eventually Lestrade’s free hand moved to John’s shoulder, giving a brief squeeze before sliding down his arm to take hold of John’s hand. John squeezed Lestrade’s fingers “All right?” Greg sipped his tea and quirked the corner of his mouth “Yeah go on then.”

John picked up the other two mugs and walked into the sitting room. John set his own mug down on the coffee table in front of the couch then crossed to stand in front of Sherlock. John extended the mug towards Sherlock, handle first. Sherlock stared at John, trying to read him, but at some point in the last three years John had turned into a blank wall. Sherlock peeled his fingers away from the arm of the chair and took the handle of the mug. John waited until his fingers were threaded through the handle and then he released the mug. Their fingers did not touch as the mug was passed and to Sherlock it felt like the mug was made of lead, his arm dipped under the weight of it and he had to focus so that it didn’t spill. Sherlock untangled his other hand from the chair and wound his fingers around the mug, he wanted to mingle his finger prints with John’s. So there would be some evidence that he was here, that they were in the same room. 

John moved back towards the couch, skirting the long way around the coffee table. Sherlock watched him go, the set of his shoulders providing no insights at all. He switched his focus to Lestrade. The DI was standing, sipping tea, in the space between the kitchen and the sitting room. He was watching John closely but he kept flicking glances at Sherlock, he seemed to have recovered from his earlier shock. Sherlock had been concerned that Lestrade was going for a gun or handcuffs when he had left to get John. But it seemed that Lestrade wasn’t going to arrest first and ask questions later, at least not this time. 

John arranged himself on the sofa and picked up his mug. He cleared his throat, as though it was difficult to speak to Sherlock directly “Alright Sherlock, let me have it then.”

Sherlock looked at John, then back at Lestrade. Why was Lestrade so far away? He had obviously comforted John in the kitchen, but now he was hanging back and letting John question Sherlock. Oh, of course, they both thought that this was just about John. Lestrade was only hanging around at all to make sure John was okay. Sherlock experienced a quick stab of conflicting emotions; on the one hand irritation that they could not see what was right in front of them, and on the other frustration with himself for not making himself clear to them.

He set the tea cup down on the side table by his elbow and locked eyes with Lestrade. “He would have killed you, both and Mrs. Hudson. He killed himself and forced my hand. I couldn’t be sure my phone was secure, but I tried to tell John, to warn him. I jumped so you would be safe, but then I had to find them and…” He trailed off. Lestrade had turned grey, he put his hand out against the wall and leaned heavily against it, breaking eye contact with Sherlock. 

John was up off the sofa and holding Lestrade tightly in an instant. Soothing hands over Lestrade’s back, mumbling something into the skin of his neck. Lestrade practically collapsed onto John and Sherlock had to look away. He watched the steam rise from his tea cup and some time passed. When he looked up again Lestrade was seated in the other arm chair and John was standing over him. John’s fingers were just coming away from Lestrade’s chin and they were apparently conducting another of their telepathic conversations. Lestrade’s face was tilted up towards John and they both seemed to have forgotten that Sherlock was in the room. But then he blinked and tilted his head back towards Sherlock. 

John turned and crossed the room to Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock broke eye contact with Lestrade and looked up at John. 

“You really are an idiot” John said. His knees folded under him and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s midsection, pinning him to the chair.


	14. Toast or Murder

John buried his head between the arm of the chair and Sherlock’s ribcage. Trying not to squeeze him too hard, but still somehow afraid that Sherlock would vanish if he didn’t hold onto him tight. His ear was pressed into Sherlock’s chest and he was comforted by the drumming of Sherlock’s heart. One thousand and thirty six days ago he hadn’t been able to feel Sherlock’s pulse, and he was desperate to know how that had happened. But just for now he was going to savour the warmth and presence of Sherlock in his arms. Another thing that would not have happened one thousand and thirty six days ago, and Sherlock was tense in John’s embrace, John could feel him contorting, trying to separate himself from John. And of course this was not how they were, there was no precedent for this. John sighed against Sherlock’s beating heart and began to pull away.

Sherlock felt like he was coming apart, John had stood over him and called him an idiot. Which felt like starting over from the beginning, but then he had collapsed into an embrace. Sherlock had known that it was possible, that John would resort to physical contact as a coping mechanism. Sherlock had calculated a seventy five percent chance that John would strike him. He’d discounted this possibility as too fairy tale ending and hadn’t planned for it. It seemed impossible now to imagine John reacting in anger, lashing out at Sherlock. He looked over John’s back at Lestrade, he was sitting forward with his elbows on his knees and his fingers interlaced just watching them. There was something broken in Lestrade’s eyes and Sherlock was reminded that he was an interloper. It had been almost three years since he had left them, it was possible that John and Lestrade had been together longer than John and Sherlock. Sherlock always seemed to miss something, his plans and deductions had hinged on the conditions from before the Fall. John and Lestrade’s relationship was something completely outside of Sherlock’s reach. Sherlock was trying to figure out how to remove himself from John’s embrace when Lestrade shifted his gaze and met Sherlock’s eyes.

It took Greg some time to come to terms with what Sherlock said. In the time since Sherlock’s Fall he had been supportive of John, helping him through his grief. And even though Greg had known Sherlock for longer he knew that John had a better claim on him than Greg did. Sherlock had tolerated Greg, for the work, but it was obvious to anyone with eyes that John was more than a colleague. Finding out now that Sherlock had thrown himself off a building to protect Greg… Greg had no frame of reference for this. He had spent so much of the last three years with the guilt of having driven Sherlock to suicide, that his lack of faith had been the straw that had broken Sherlock. His stomach twisted, he wasn’t absolved because Moriarty had black mailed Sherlock into jumping. If anything he was more responsible. If he had believed Sherlock they could have found another way the stop Moriarty. He raised his eyes to Sherlock’s gaze, a plea for forgiveness on his lips as John pulled back from Sherlock’s lap.

Sherlock saw the fear and guilt in Lestrade’s eyes and he clamped his arms around John, keeping him from backing away. “Moriarty killed two men in front of me, as proof of concept. I did not care about or even know them, but they died because I touched them. I had to protect you, all of you, which meant that I had to play his game.” He kept his eyes fixed on Lestrade, but he clung to John. “He had someone in your department, Lestrade, and he would have killed you if I had done anything to warn you. Moran told me that they had blackmailed him, well I say blackmail, really the man had gone to Moriarty for help disposing of his father in law and had been their informant in the Yard ever since. He was the one who put Donovan in such a lather too.”

John had shifted against Sherlock, raising his head and resting it against Sherlock’s collar bone as he spoke. When Sherlock finished he pulled free and turned back to Greg. (Greg was green, but his eyes were fixed on Sherlock.) “Jesus, Sherlock, bit not good.” John pulled both of them to their feet, reluctant himself to break contact with Sherlock and they crossed the room to Greg. 

Greg tried to smirk as they approached. “Not sure there is a good way to tell me my friend Ian Walker was plotting to kill me, and had been informing on me to a criminal mastermind for the better part of two years.” He broke eye contact and looked down at his hands. “We went to the pub together on game nights, I had to tell his wife he’d been killed in a car wreck.” Greg’s head snapped up again and he looked at Sherlock. “Was it really an accident then?”

Sherlock shrugged “I can assure you that I had nothing to do with his death, Moran said that…” Sherlock trailed off at the look that passed from John to Lestrade. “I didn’t kill Moran either, before you get ahead of yourselves. It really was the drug dealers, he had contracted himself out to a Mexican cartel and when the Angels found out he was in town they acted in preemptive self defense. Walker was still feeding Moran information up until the accident, Moran was following Moriarty’s instructions to ensure that my reputation was never restored.”

John scrubbed his hands over his face. “So when did you talk to Moran then?” Sherlock opened his mouth to answer. “No wait, when did you last eat? Your stomach sounded like a hostage in the boot of a car. Is it safe to have breakfast, or will we be murdered over toast?”

Sherlock cocked his head and regarded John. “The hired goon they sent after Mrs. Hudson is currently serving 15 years for the stabbing death of a clerk. I would very much like to speak with him, but he poses no threat currently.”

They all froze, at the knock on the sitting room door (Sherlock did not believe in the power of a name to summon someone) and the familiar sing song “Boys, I’ve got the paper if you're decent.”

Greg called back to her “Just a tic Mrs. H!” and they could hear her amused tut through the door. He raised his head to John and Sherlock and mouthed “What now?”


	15. We are all fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson reunion

John licked his lips and squared his shoulders. “I’ll go out and warn her. Unless there is some reason she shouldn’t know now I can’t see keeping it from her.” He looked expectantly at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s neck contorted, his head jerked to the side and down at once. Somehow conveying both that John should go to her and that there wasn’t anything to prevent Mrs. Hudson from knowing. He wanted her back, he had missed her desperately but the possibility of her rejection or that his deception would physically harm her caused something like physical pain in his chest. There was a brief tightening in his eyes.

John saw the flash of pain in Sherlock’s eyes and reached out to him. Grasping his hand and giving his fingers a quick squeeze. “It will be fine. She’ll be fine.” John tried to pull the corners of his mouth up into a reassuring smile. John still wasn’t sure he was fine, but Mrs. Hudson, well she was Mrs. Hudson, John was actually more concerned about Sherlock than about her. He glanced at Greg, who was giving him a look that said “better you than me.” John grimaced at him. He let his fingers fall free of Sherlock’s grasp and turned to the door. 

He turned the lock and put his hand on the door knob, taking in a deep breath through his nose. John opened the door a fraction and slipped out into the hallway. Mrs. Hudson was standing with her back to the door looking up the stairs to the third floor, but she turned at the sound of the door. “Morning John dear, I’ve brought the paper for Greg. And I was wondering if you boys wanted to take a turn around the park with me, it looks like a lovely day.”

John smiled and took the paper from her. “Ah ta Mrs. Hudson. Um I think we are staying in today.” He wet his lips again and shuffled on his feet. “Well we’ve had a bit of a shock this morning, and I’m not sure.” John tucked the paper under his arm and scrubbed his face with his hands.

Mrs. Hudson’s demeanor changed as John fidgeted in front of her. And she stepped closer to him. “John, what’s happened? Is everything alright with Greg?” She looked at the closed door to the sitting room, concern and fear in her eyes. She put her hand on John’s elbow. (She had watched John fall apart after Sherlock, and seen Greg put him back together again. She wasn’t sure John could handle something bad happening to Greg, but if Greg had hurt John she would never forgive him.)

“No, Greg’s fine. We’re fine… well it isn’t that. It’s Sherlock, he’s well…” He broke off as Mrs. Hudson’s grip on his elbow became painful.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson spoke the word quietly, she hadn’t heard John mention his name in well over two years. “what has he done?” She looked back at the sitting room door, as if trying to see through it. 

“I’m not sure, he hasn’t..” But John was cut off again as Mrs. Hudson pushed past him and opened the door, swinging it wide and stepping through. Sherlock was still standing beside Greg’s chair, but Greg had gone into the kitchen to make more tea. Mrs. Hudson let out a small noise and put her hand over her mouth. They stood for an instant frozen at opposite sides of the room. Then Sherlock took two giant strides and Mrs. Hudson took one small step forward and they embraced. Sherlock folding himself down to practically enclose the smaller woman in his arms. “Sherlock, my dear boy.”

She pulled back from him and looked up into his eyes. “Oh Sherlock, what have you done?” She stroked her hand through his fringe, then cupped his face in her hands. 

Sherlock had tears in his eyes. “He said he would hurt you. I had to keep you safe. I’m so sorry Mrs. Hudson, please forgive me.”

She pulled him close and he collapsed to his knees, holding her tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really wanted Mrs. Hudson to just deck him. Just completely lose it and slap him silly. But alas it is not so.


	16. How it all began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So chronologically as I was writing this I got stuck, I was a bit emotional after the Mrs. Hudson Reunion. So I wrote the next four chapters as back story.  
> These are unconnected to the reunion, but coherent to the entire story so they stay.
> 
> This chapter explains all the new furniture in 221b and why John is still living there.

It had started with that Christmas party. Well obviously not **with** that Christmas party, nothing actually happened then, but that was the night that everything started to align. Everything that happened with Sherlock covered up the little details of life.

Greg Lestrade got a divorce, and went on holiday to clear his head. He took his wedding ring off the day before he left Santorini and tossed it into the ocean. He’d decided that it was for the best that he and Rebecca had never had any children. Less fuss and mess this way. They would have to do some work to split up the accumulation of things from their relationship, but that was manageable. 

Mycroft had called while Greg was unpacking, he’d found a bedsit before he left and had all of his clothes in boxes waiting for him when he got back. He had another week of holiday left, he’d been planning to spend it looking for a proper flat. He’d gone to Baskerville more to see what Sherlock was up to than any real concern for national security. John had noticed the band of lighter coloured skin where his wedding ring had sat. After the whole horrible business was over they had talked by the fire, nursing pints and carefully not talking about much of anything at all. 

John Watson lost the last of his girlfriends to his relationship with Sherlock. Irene came back from the dead and told him that he wasn’t fooling anyone. John tried to not care what other people thought of his relationship with Sherlock. The only thing that mattered was that Sherlock was married to the work. John felt that it was pathetic, but he thought that if he could make himself useful to the work then maybe, maybe, it would be enough. Everyone thought they were having sex, because as Sherlock would say everyone is an idiot. But it wasn’t because of John’s supposed sexual identity crisis, John is one of the rare breed of men who was capable of maintaining a friendship with someone to whom they are sexually attracted. Sherlock had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in John sexually, and John knew that Sherlock’s company was worth far more to him than sex. He’d dated women partially because he didn’t want to make Sherlock uncomfortable and partially because women kept asking him out on dates. (John also suspected any man he brought within range of Sherlock would assume they were sleeping together too and that would be the end of that.)

After Baskerville John had made an effort to get to know Greg better, they had gone out for pub nights and sometimes when Sherlock abandoned John with the post case paperwork coffee. It had all been very casual, Greg eventually asked though. “So you and Sherlock having a domestic?” John had called Greg on a Wednesday evening and asked him round to the pub. John sighed into his pint, taking a long drink before setting it down. “Not you too? He’s not like that, married to the work and all.” Greg had smiled over his pint and said ” Just him that isn’t like that then?” John had done a fair impression of a fish out of water and was organizing himself to answer when his mobile buzzed with at text from Sherlock. “He’s sorted out where they hid the bloody painting, can you come along?”

Nothing came of it though, Sherlock kept John fairly busy, they worked a lot of private cases. For his part Greg started dating again, and had a string of short relationships that generally seemed to end with his partners complaining about his devotion to his job. John tried not to think about it, but if he was feeling hopeful and romantic he felt as though Sherlock was letting him in. They had gained something at Baskerville, maybe it was Sherlock being forced to admit that John was his friend but Sherlock had mellowed considerably. His treatment of others was still atrocious but he gave John so much more warmth. 

That had been a romantic fiction John was writing for himself however, it became clear after the Ricoletti affair. Sherlock might care, but he was sometimes incapable of understanding what it meant to be friends, or more than friends. Most of what happened after that was too dark for John to think about. Greg had come to visit John after the Fall. John had been in lock-up, he had turned himself in, not seeing the point in trying to hide when Sherlock was gone. Greg had come to fetch him out, he had gone to Mycroft and Mycroft had done one bloody useful thing for a change and put the fear of Queen and country into the Chief Inspector. 

Greg had taken John back to his tiny flat, tucked him into the bed and left him alone for three days. Only poking him enough to make him eat and drink.

It might have ended there, John had roused himself out of bed and determined to go on with his life. But then there was the reading of Sherlock’s will, and Sherlock left John his rather considerable estate on the condition that John remain in 221b for three years. If John refused to remain in Baker street the money would revert to Mycroft. And while John was ill at the idea of living in 221b he refused to allow Mycroft to benefit from Sherlock’s death. (Mycroft neither needed nor wanted the money, he had every intention of transferring it back to John if John refused Sherlock’s condition but in the end John’s stubbornness precluded Mycroft needing to take any action.)

John asked Greg to come with him to Baker street, since there were no conditions on John living in 221b on his own. They moved the majority of Sherlock’s things into 221c “temporarily” until they could sort out what to do with them. (all of Sherlock’s things are still in the basement flat, boxed and wrapped against the damp, except his clothes and violin which are in the upstairs room that formally belonged to John.)

They had been sitting on Greg’s sofa, enjoying a well deserved beer after having moved furniture around all day. Greg looked at John and said “Alright then?” and John had said “Yeah alright.” And the upstairs bedroom had gone unused from that point on.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And more sexy fun times.
> 
> Now almost angst free!

They hadn’t really ever talked about it. They had tried holding hands in public once, and it wasn’t awkward but somehow their hands had ended up drifting apart. They walked close together, Greg slouched a bit and turned in towards John; they created their own space together and it was more than holding hands. They didn’t really have people over to 221b from the Yard. Dimmock was the closest to Greg these days, and they generally just went round to the pub with him. Anderson and Donovan had transferred away from Greg by mutual agreement. John would not have had them in the flat again regardless. Molly had come around once, shortly after the Fall. She had stayed for only about fifteen minutes before she made a teary exit. John thinks that she knows about him and Greg but she never mentions it if they see each other.

They aren’t hiding, if anyone bothered to ask they would tell the truth. They go out together, to dinner, movies and just regular things like doing the shopping together. But people from the Yard don’t talk about John anymore. John works locum at a couple of surgeries, he hasn’t made friends with anyone in particular. One of the other doctors made a pass at him, and he told her he was seeing someone, she didn’t ask further and they left it at that. John and Greg live in their tiny world, and John isn’t lonely even if there is a Sherlock shaped hole just at the edge of his vision.

They had been sitting on the couch watching a movie, John was restless and unable to focus on the screen. His hands had started wandering, just dragging his fingers across Greg’s thigh. Greg sighed and shifted slightly, letting his legs drop open but his attention was still fixed on the screen. John’s smile was just a slight curve of his lips, accepting a challenge he wasn’t even sure if Greg was aware he had issued. He ran his fingers up the inseam of Greg’s jeans, keeping his touch light just barely allowing himself to feel the texture of the stitches. When he had about a hand’s breadth left to go he took his hand away and returned it to Greg’s knee, starting his upward motion again with slightly more pressure. He allowed himself a bit more progress before pulling away again and looping back down to the knee. Just as he was about to pull his hand away a third time Greg shifted again causing John’s fingers to fall against the warmth of his growing erection.

John smiled a wicked little grin and turned to Greg. “Beer?” He pulled his fingers away slowly as he stood up.

Greg looked up, startled by the sudden change. “Um, sure. Cheers.” He cleared his throat and shifted his hips slightly. His body language screaming “Tease.” He reached forward and grabbed the remote, pausing the film.

John went into the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of beer from the fridge, twisting off the cap and tossing it in the bin before returning to the sitting room. Instead of sitting down next to Greg he moved around until he was directly between Greg and the television. Taking the bottle from John Greg looked up in confusion. John smiled as Greg’s fingers passed over his on the bottle.

“You didn’t want one?” Greg asked as he took a sip.

“No, I’m good.” John said as he curled down to press a quick kiss against Greg’s lips. He ran his hands over Greg’s shoulders and down his arms. Lowering himself until he was settled on his knees between Greg’s splayed legs. Greg watched him, his eyebrows getting higher as John sank down. “What’s this then?” Greg asked.

“I’ve seen this one, it’s all I can do not to spoil the ending. You can watch it though.” He twisted around slightly and picked up the remote, resuming the film. Greg took another sip of the beer and flicked his eyes to the screen then back down to John. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll find a way to distract myself.” He hooked his thumb under the button of Greg’s jeans, popping them open and sliding down the fly. “Maybe just, up a bit.”

Greg huffed out a “Jesus…” but lifted his hips to let John divest him of jeans and pants. John grabbed the waist of both and slid them smoothly down past Greg’s knees. He pressed a soft kiss to Greg’s knee as he shoved the bundle of clothing down around his ankles and settled more comfortably on his knees.

Greg cleared his throat and took a long swallow of beer. “Yes, right then, watching film. Yes.” John chuckled against Greg’s thigh and began tracing the line he had been following earlier up his thigh, this time with small kisses and the occasional flick of his tongue. Greg settled back and took another long drink from the bottle concentrating on ignoring John and trying to focus on the movie. 

John resumed kissing his way up Greg’s thigh. He stopped short and looked up at Greg, smirking slightly when he saw that Greg was doing a terrible job of not looking at John. He turned to the right thigh and repeated his line of kisses, but this time he trailed his fingers along the left side as well. When he reached Greg’s groin he smoothed both of his hands over Greg’s stomach, lifting his shirt to expose his stomach. John ran his tongue up the length of Greg’s erection, teasing and light. He was rewarded by a hiss from above and a slight motion of Greg’s hips. 

He looked up again, seeing Greg’s eyes firmly, defiantly fixed on the screen in front of him. He smiled and planted a kiss over Greg’s navel, running his hands down and smoothing Greg’s hips open wider. He was sorely tempted to just swallow Greg down, but he made himself wait. Indulging in flicks of his tongue over warm skin. He could hear the movie coming to an end, and Greg’s breathing becoming more and more strained. As the credits started to roll John finally allowed himself to take Greg into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the head before drawing him in as deeply as possible. 

Greg growled out a _“Jesus fucking Christ”_ and threw his head back against the sofa. His hips twitched up again and he groaned as the tip of his cock touched the back of John’s throat. “Shit, sorry.”

John slid up and then back down again, swallowing around Greg and demonstrating his lack of gag reflex. Greg inhaled sharply through his teeth, _“god, yeah good.”_ Greg’s left hand stroked across John’s temple and ran through John’s hair. John made a small noise in the back of this throat and slid his right hand down from its resting place on Greg’s thigh, tucking it behind his back. 

Greg looked down at John, savouring the sight of his cock filling John’s mouth. He curled the fingers of his left hand, just catching them in John’s hair but not really getting a good grip. He reached out slowly with his right hand, giving John plenty of time to bat him away if he wanted. As soon as his fingers touched John’s temple John’s left hand joined his right behind his back and he interlocked his fingers. 

Greg groaned and pulled John off. “Jesus, John… do you have a safeword?” John nuzzled his face into Greg’s hand, planting a kiss on his palm. “Thank you, I’ll pinch your foot if I’m uncomfortable. But normally it is toothpaste.” John replied. Greg nodded “Toothpaste is a colossally unsexy word.”

He guided John back down onto his cock, hissing his breath out through his teeth as John sank down. “ungh, you are such a tease, with that tongue of yours.” Greg held onto John’s head and thrust up in long slow motions. John moaned and rolled his tongue over the tip as Greg drew back. 

“Oh, fuck.” Greg lost his rhythm, holding John’s head tight and fucking roughly into his mouth. John took a deep breath through his nose and let his jaw go slack, allowing himself to fall into the sensation of fullness. He could feel the tension building in Greg until Greg let out a long low moan, pumping come into John’s mouth. John swallowed twice as he rode out Greg’s orgasm before Greg pulled him back off and released his hair. 

Greg looked down and met John’s eyes, “Thank you. John.”

John smiled up at him, rocking back to sit on his heels. “Anytime. Greg.”


	18. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is cross posted from Midwife and Mortician.
> 
> Don't read it if mentions of death and suicide bother you.  
> Or if you haven't seen the second series finale.

Sherlock was hyperventilating, preparing for having to hold his breath. He flipped through his phone until he found the draft to Molly that read “I’m sorry, bring the body bag.” he hit send on the message. He found that he was actually sorry, Molly did count and she had felt something for Jim from IT. This part would be hardest on her, even if she had said she no longer felt an emotional attachment to the man. Seeing his brains and blood on the roof of St. Bart’s would be traumatic for her.

She arrived on the roof moments later, she had been waiting two floors down in a room across from the stairwell. Behind her came Desmond, one of Sherlock’s most trusted members of the homeless network. Desmond had also been chosen for this part as he was part of an underground boxing ring, he would be able to offer some protection to Molly should she be intercepted before she could return to the morgue, but he was also possessed of the upper body strength necessary to carry Jim down to the elevator. Molly had arranged a gurney, and although it wasn’t typical for her to move a body through the hospital they were sure they could accomplish it quickly enough. Especially with the distraction Sherlock would have to provide. 

His heart hammered and he swallowed several times, trying to push aside his nausea. He looked up and met Molly’s eyes, “Molly… I thought he would…” Sherlock had hoped that Jim would call off the assassins when Sherlock had given himself over, he was sure that his bargain would be accepted. Jim was bored, but together they should have been unstoppable. 

Molly swallowed and looked down at Jim. “No. It isn’t your fault. He was insane.” She unfolded the body bag and spread it out next to Jim’s body. Sherlock carefully took the gun out of Jim’s hand, John had taught him how to eject a clip and put the safety back on. He checked that there were still bullets in the gun and put the clip back in, handing the gun off to Desmond. “Toss it in the Thames when you are done, it is very important that this weapon not appear on the black market.” Desmond nodded curtly and tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers. 

Molly handed some latex gloves to Desmond and he put them on, moving to stand near Jim’s shoulders. Sherlock bent near his ankles and together they lifted him into the bag. Sherlock had a brief pang of paranoia as he felt the trace of warmth in Jim’s body, but then his head lolled back and Sherlock had to struggle not to vomit. There was no way to fake the gaping exit wound. He was lucky that he was already breathing deeply through his mouth and he closed his eyes and turned his head away to regain his composure. 

Molly folded Jim’s arms into the bag and did up the zipper. Sherlock felt better now that the body was out of sight. “There is too much blood, what if someone comes up here after?” he said. 

Molly gave him a look, surprised at his lack of forethought. Desmond smirked and went back to the door, returning several seconds later with a large bucket of water. He carefully poured it over the blood and bits angling it towards the drain spout in the roof. By the time it reached the ground it would be diluted enough that anyone other than Sherlock would not notice it. It wouldn’t hold up if someone thought to do a decent search of the roof, but he was counting on his suicide not raising any red flags. Jim had done his job too well, no one would be looking for him and everyone would believe that Sherlock was a fraud.

Hot and sudden anger coursed through him, this wasn’t where he wanted to be. He wanted to be heading back to Baker Street, to John and Mrs. Hudson forcing him to eat. That thought poured icy water down his spine. He had to protect them. “Everything is prepared below?” he asked Molly.

“Yes, but are you sure?” Molly looked worried, she’d been avoiding the edges of the building. 

“He said he would kill them Molly, nothing has changed because he is dead.” Sherlock turned to the edge of the building nearest the street. “John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade will die unless I stop…” He turned back to Molly. “I’m sorry.” He meant he was sorry that she wasn’t on the list, as twisted as that was.

“It’s alright. It’s fine.” She looked away from him, twisting her fingers together. “We should go.”

Sherlock said nothing, but Desmond bent down and hefted the body bag over his shoulder into a fire-man carry. Molly picked up the bucket and followed him to the door, holding it open for him to go first. “I… it will be alright.” she said. 

Sherlock watched the door swing closed and turned back to the edge, he took a step before the morning light caught on something shiny on the roof. He stooped to pick up the shell casing, rolling it between his fingers before slipping it into his pocket and removing his phone. He carefully deleted everything except the encrypted message that he had recorded earlier for John. He knew none of the idiots at the Yard would be able to crack it, it was based off a secret language John had taught him (that John had used to keep secrets from Harry in his youth with some of his own improvements) and he hoped that the phone would find its way to John.

He stepped onto the ledge of the building and dialed John’s number.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's stress dreams post reichenbach

John is counting his steps. He knows exactly where he is and how far it is to where he wants to be. It is so dark that he has closed his eyes, allowing his familiarity with the place and his confidence to guide him.

It is seventeen more steps to the end of the lane, he’s going there to wait. He snakes his foot forward along the tips of the new mown grass along the verge of the lane. His weight rocking forward as he put his foot down on the earth.

A branch (finger bone) scrapes across his temple and he reaches up to brush it away. It snaps in his grasp, cracking loudly in the dark. There is an answering snap behind him and two paces to his right.

John freezes, there are no trees along the lane at his uncle’s farm. “Who is there?” he breathes, cold not-sweat (fear) running down his spine.

“As ever John, you see but you do not observe. _Open your eyes._ ” that voice. _The voice._

 

John turns towards the sound **“Sherlock!”** a short sharp shout. (not drawn out, a command rather than a plea.)

John opens his eyes, heart pounding, tangled in the sheets of his bed at Baker street. 

Greg doesn’t say anything, just pulls John close. Wrapping John up in his arms not constricting, letting John breathe but also making him secure. John pressed his face into the warmth of Greg’s neck. “He called me an idiot.”

Greg huffed “Yeah well he would.” and tightened his arms. “He was a git sometimes.”

“He was.” John sighed, letting Greg’s warmth chase the cold of the dream away.


	20. Deus ex Mrs. Hudson.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we are back to the reunion.

They spent the morning reviewing the evidence that Sherlock had brought with him. Recordings of conversations with Moriarty from the flat made after the not guilty verdict, and from the rooftop of St. Bart’s. Sherlock also had copies of documents from Moran’s tablet. Correspondence from before the fall. All of which seemed to indicate Sherlock had been played by Moriarty and not the other way around. Mrs. Hudson had gone out and come back with some shopping, making them all sit down and eat. And they had remained gathered around the kitchen table, now strewn with papers and surveillance photos.

“It isn’t that I don’t believe you Sherlock.” Lestrade said, running his hands through his hair. “Because I do believe you, but all of this, coming from you. It won’t be enough to clear your name.” He sighed and stared into his empty tea cup “They can just say that you were working with him, and you turned on each other.”

“But he threatened you, all of you, why would I do that? Why would I plan that? I’m not…” Sherlock broke off and looked desperately at John. “You can’t think that I did.”

John met his gaze, strong and steadfast. “No, Sherlock, no! He strapped a bomb to me remember? I know he was real, and I know you had nothing to do with it. Greg is just saying… well, all of it looks bad from the outside. We have to find more, we have to be careful. That’s all.”

Sherlock crumpled “There isn’t anything else. Moriarty didn’t keep records, Moran is dead. No one else knew anything about it.”

Mrs. Hudson got up from the table and put more water on for tea. “Well dear, I’m not sure that is entirely true.” She opened the cupboard and pulled out a package of biscuits and a plate. “A few days ago I got a call from that horrible reporter woman, Kitty Riley, she said she was writing a follow up. Well I told her off, quite strongly I’m afraid. But she did say she had some new information.”

The three men at the table had rather comical expressions of disbelief and awe on their faces. Sherlock’s face was tinged with pride. But John recovered first. “Why didn’t you say anything to us?”

“Well I wasn’t about to help that woman write another horrible story about Sherlock. She seemed to need something from me, or else she wouldn’t be able to go to print. Something about the editor and sources.”

Sherlock snorted. “Yes I imagine she wasn’t happy with her story after Richard Brook disappeared for good. Her editor mustn’t have been too happy either. I’m surprised she is still working for that rag.”

“Still that may be what we need, release it through her via Mrs. Hudson. Keep you under wraps a bit longer and then let things fall as they will. We know Richard Brook didn’t exist, sounds like Kitty might as well. Then we do a dramatic reveal that you survived after the story breaks.” Lestrade was already planning out details of logistics on a scrap of paper. He looked up. “I need some things from the office though, but if I go in on the weekend they might make me work. Or at least get suspicious. I haven’t been spending much extra time there lately.” He looked over at John fondly.

John smiled back at Lestrade. “Right then, so quiet weekend in. Monday Greg gets to play “sources inside the Yard” and we call Riley, find out what she knows and if we are right this gets finished in next weekends paper.” 

Sherlock had tensed at the look that passed between the other two men. This was where they asked him to leave. He’d just get in the way if he stayed here, regardless of the museum in the upstairs bedroom. 

John turned back to Sherlock. “So. Um. All of your things are upstairs. I don’t… well that room isn’t… You could… I mean only if you wanted to…” It shouldn’t be possible to repress a blush, but John was making an admirable effort at it. “We could get Chinese from that place you like tonight.”

Sherlock felt his shoulders relax. “Yes. Please. I’d like that.” He looked over at Lestrade. “Thank you.”


	21. Chapter 21

Some time later they had gone over and over the plans. Tracing over the same paths again and again until they wore holes in the paper. Mrs. Hudson put an end to it by saying that it was her cards night with Mrs. Turner and it was her turn to bring the punch. All three men rose, and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. None of them dared to remind her not to gossip about Sherlock’s return. 

John went to the phone and pulled out the delivery menu for Sherlock’s favourite Chinese. He ordered entirely too much food. He remembered from the old days trying to tempt Sherlock to eat with lots of variety. Greg wasn’t a picky eater, thank god, but he wondered which one of them would complain first about the lack of meat in what John had ordered. 

John wasn’t sure if he was still in shock, or if he had ever really been in shock to begin with. He felt lighter, like his feet weren’t quite touching the ground. He’d spent every one of the days since the Fall wanting Sherlock back. He hadn’t ever expected that his wish would come true. He felt like he should be angry, but he had been sad for so long that he felt like he needed time to let the anger build again. As though he was trying to build a fire with nothing but wet kindling. It just was not going to catch right away. He felt like he should warn Sherlock, or probably Greg that there was shit storm coming. Or he could just enjoy the peace that he currently felt and hope that it lasted.

Yeah, maybe he would try for the second one. Which meant he would have to keep Sherlock from getting bored. There was nothing so dangerous to John’s inner balance as a bored and rambunctious Sherlock Holmes.

“Greg, didn’t you have some cold cases we were going to look at?”

Greg looked at him quizzically “You want to do cold cases now?” Then he caught John’s eye and the look that he was giving him. “Yeah, let me get my briefcase.”

The three of them sat looking over case files until the door bell rang for the Chinese. Greg went down to pay, and he brought back the cartons to the sitting room. He shuffled files aside to make room for the take-away. Sherlock had been making notes on post-its all over the files, after Greg had told him off for starting to write on the originals. 

Sherlock picked at the stir-fried vegetables and cashews, using his chop sticks to pick up individual pieces and place them directly in his mouth. “This one was obviously the fiancee, the victim had salad for lunch. He’d met with his yoga instructor slash pre-marital fling, and the fiancee caught him out. I suppose she will get away with it though, since there won’t be any way to see the chips in her nail varnish now.”

“Well I can at least take another run at questioning her, maybe she will crack.” Greg took the file from Sherlock and looked over the post-its. He tilted one of the crime scene photos and peered at at detail Sherlock had pointed out. “That’s nail varnish?” Greg closed the file and concentrated on his mushroom fried rice.

John shook his head, staring down at the hot and sour soup he had ordered for himself. “Brilliant.” he whispered.

Sherlock heard of course and straightened up, before proceeding to devour the rest the carton, piece by piece.


	22. Trust issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg isn't sure how they all fit together. John and Sherlock are a bit oblivious.

Greg stifled a yawn at around half nine. “Yeah I think I am done in. I’ll just get you some fresh towels Sherlock, I’m sure you’ll want to…” he waved his hand in the general direction of the bathroom.

Sherlock looked up from the file he had been making notes on. “Yes, that would be… lovely. I feel as though I will be washing bit of Vancouver’s DTES off for weeks. Thank-you.”

“Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?” John quipped. “You go away for almost three years and come back… polite? What has happened?” There was the beginning of a real smile on his lips, until he looked over at Greg.

Greg had planted both his fists on the back of the armchair and was staring at Sherlock. His entire body language had changed from a moment before, he was Detective Inspector Lestrade now. “How long were you in the deets?”

Sherlock’s gaze went cold. “Two months, Detective Inspector. Will you require a urine sample, sir?”

John looked back and forth between them. “Hold on, I’ve missed something. What’s a deets?”

“Deets is a slang term for Vancouver’s downtown east side. A neighbourhood of such fearsome reputation that our good D.I. is concerned for my continued sobriety. But what he fails to see is that while I was there I was _working_. Further if I had needed a reason not to fall from his grace again the DTES is full of specimens…”

“Yes, alright.” Greg scrubbed his hands over his face. His shoulders slumping as he let the D.I. drop away. “I’ll get your towels.” He turned on his heel and headed for the linen cupboard.

John stood and walked around the coffee table to stand in front of Sherlock. He pulled the file from Sherlock’s hands and set it down on the table. Before pulling the table a bit closer to Sherlock’s chair and sitting down on it. “Hey, none of that.” John took Sherlock’s hand into his own. “You have been gone for so long, you can’t expect us not to worry about what happened while you were away. But if you tell us about it we… well we won’t be worried anymore. I’m sure that mine and Greg’s imagination is worse than the reality. At least I hope so.”

Sherlock snorted, but his gaze warmed slightly. “You sound like that ridiculous therapist.”

“Well that is one of the things I did a fair bit of while you were gone.” He looked down at Sherlock’s hand in his. He wasn’t sure why he was touching him so much. They might have had more physical contact in the last twelve hours than the year that they lived together. “You could have been a little more plain in your note you know. ‘A magic trick.’ I am an idiot after all.”

Sherlock flinched away, but John held tight to his wrist. “You were meant to find my phone. The pass code was rache , and it had some more clues. I hadn’t… well, Moran got to it before you could I suppose. And he kept it, which was eventually how I was able to track him.” Sherlock reversed the grip John had on his wrist, catching John’s hand between both of his own. “I didn’t intend for it to happen this way.”

Neither of them noticed Greg dropping a stack of towels on the back of the arm chair and disappearing back down the hall.


	23. Trust issues - Greg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg panics. John is the voice of reason

Greg sat on the edge of his bed, staring into space and chewing on the inside of his cheek. He had been increasingly uncomfortable all day, but he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject or if he even should. Sherlock had made a rather blunt effort to keep him in the conversation, but John was fixated on Sherlock, taking every opportunity to be close to him, they were touching constantly and Greg was feeling like he was intruding on something deeply private.

Part of his brain was telling him to pack an over night bag and go stay with Dimmock for the rest of the weekend. Until he could find somewhere else to stay permanently. It pained him that it would actually be more complicated to remove himself from John’s life than it had been to separate from Rebecca. It wasn’t lost on him that he was spending more time away from the Yard with John than he had in the entirety of his marriage. He’d been in love with Rebecca, and he had acknowledged some of the responsibility for them growing apart. Rebecca hadn’t fought for him the way John did though. John didn’t complain if Greg had to stay late for a case, he helped Greg run through it again, gave him fresh eyes. And then shagged him senseless to remind Greg to come home. Rebecca would have just put leftovers in the oven, watched some telly and gone to bed.  
He could leave though, he should leave. He was just going to get pushed out if he stayed. It had always been John and Sherlock, even when Sherlock was gone it had been John and empty space where Sherlock used to be, and Greg. He could still help with the plan to bring Sherlock back. He owed Sherlock that, and more for all he had done. But he could do that from outside 221b. He could go, and leave room for John and Sherlock to put themselves back together again. 

The angry part of his brain was screaming “Fuck that and the horse it rode in on.” This morning, this bloody morning while Sherlock was out in the sitting room, and Greg was not going to be embarrassed about that, John had said “I love you.” So this is just going to be where Greg has to fight for John. He had seen John be consumed by Sherlock once before, and all of John’s relationships end because the women hadn’t fought hard enough for his attention, but also because they hadn’t been willing to see the work for what it was. John needed the work as much as Sherlock did. John would deny it, say that Sherlock needed him and that was why he did it. But Greg knew better, he knew that the only thing that had kept John going for the last three years was the quiet battle to restore Sherlock’s memory. While he withered away doing locum work the only thing that kept him from following Sherlock off the roof of St. Bart’s was the knowledge that he was the only one who believed and knew the truth.

So Greg would throw himself into the work with John and Sherlock. Not just for John but also for Sherlock. The revelation that Greg was one of three people Sherlock had been willing to die to protect had hit Greg hard this morning. He had known that Sherlock had tolerated him better than other members of the Yard. But to be held in the same regard as John and Mrs. Hudson… It wasn’t something Greg would have claimed for himself before today. He hadn’t given much thought to his relationship with Sherlock before today. All those years ago John had asked how well he had known Sherlock, and Greg had said he didn’t. Looking back he realized that wasn’t true. Sherlock had tolerated him for five years before John had come along. And Greg hadn’t thought anything of it, Sherlock was just a slightly mad man with a gift for solving difficult crimes, someone Greg could bring problems to, someone he should bring problems to. Greg frowned. Sherlock had never shown anything other than contempt for Greg, but he solved the problems, and somewhere along the way Greg had realized that Sherlock needed the work. Greg felt a pang of guilt. Before John, before Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson there had only been Greg (not that Sherlock ever thought of him as anything other than Lestrade). 

Greg’s heart clenched. All that time, five years before John, Greg had used Sherlock to solve cases. And Sherlock had let Greg think that it was all beneath him, that there wasn’t any connection, to protect himself from Greg’s indifference outside the work. Then John had come and smashed down all of Sherlock’s defenses and Sherlock had _died for them_. Greg was nauseous from the power of it and he had to put his head between his knees and haul in a deep breath.

John found him like that, gasping for air and pale. “Greg!” John’s field medic training kicked in and he was across the room and taking Greg’s pulse in a flash. “Alright?” he said as he took a knee beside Greg.

“I doubted him, John. He knew, he told me the idea was in my head. He knew and he… _he jumped off a building to save my life._ ” Greg waved the fact that it hadn’t killed Sherlock away with the hand John wasn’t using to take his pulse. “How do I…” Greg wasn’t sure if the end of that question was _deserve that_ , or _thank him_. He looked at John pleadingly. 

John swallowed hard, his earlier resolve to avoid anger and strive for peace seemed naive now. He hadn’t considered Greg’s feelings in this whole thing, he felt a stab of guilt at that. “Honestly, I don’t know. This isn’t… I won’t pretend I didn’t want him back. That part of me doesn’t want to let him out of my sight. But the part of me that watched him fall, that begged him not to…” John stopped and turned his head away clearing his throat. “That part of me is angry, and hurt and I don’t know what to do either. Except my head feels like lead, I feel like I have run ten clicks in full kit and then done combat surgery for days. And then some bastard put a hole in my shoulder. So right now all I want is to sleep. I don’t think anything will be better in the morning, but I would like to try.”

Greg gave him a half smile and sighed. “Yeah.” He took both of John’s hands in his own and they stood together. Greg pulled John close and they wrapped their arms around each other, John’s head on Greg’s shoulder. Greg brushed a gentle kiss against John’s temple. “We will be fine in the morning.”


	24. Trust issues - Sherlock

Greg slipped out from underneath the blanket, his bare feet touching down on the cool hardwood floor. He hissed quietly at the shock and gently lowered himself to the floor. He didn’t want to wake John but in the turmoil of last night he had forgotten to get a glass of water. He generally woke parched half way through the night and had long ago developed a habit of leaving a glass of water on his nightstand. 

He crept carefully across the room. Between the army and his various medical jobs John was a light sleeper, and Greg had discovered early on in their relationship that the rush of being woken in the night was not something that John could recover from easily. He had mastered the art of sliding across the bedroom floor, and knew all the spots to avoid. He reached the door and paused, taking a deep breath. It had to be opened smoothly in one motion, or it creaked and would waste the effort he had made crossing the room silently.

He pulled the door open and slid out of the room, pulling the door almost shut behind him. Greg took two steps into the hallway before his foot encountered something soft, and then something soft with something hard underneath it. There was a muffled curse from the floor level and Greg wobbled, pulling his foot back and retreating, his heart pounding. “What the fuck?” he whispered harshly. His hand flailed out and he found the light switch. 

In the sudden, painful, brightness he was bewildered to see Sherlock standing, clutching the duvet from John’s bed around him. He managed to look affronted, even in a old t-shirt and with his hair flattened on one side. “Sherlock.” Greg continued to whisper, hoping he wouldn’t wake John, “Do I want to know why you were sleeping on the hall floor?”

Sherlock blinked twice and swallowed, his haughty exterior falling away and being replaced by something fragile and vulnerable. “You stepped on my foot.”

“Well I’m not used to having people sleeping on the floor outside my door, am I? And don’t think I hadn’t noticed you not answering me.”

Sherlock looked down at the floor and clutched the blanket tighter to him. “John is angry with me. I’m not sure if he knows it yet though.” He looked up and met Greg’s eyes. “Both of you…”

Greg’s heart hammered in his chest. “Sherlock, we aren’t angry with you…”

“Not yet you aren’t, but you will be. I had to make sure you didn’t leave…” His voice cracked. “I needed to make sure you didn’t leave me alone.”

The bedroom door opened behind Greg, making him jump and turn. “John.” Greg and Sherlock said in unison. Greg looked back at Sherlock, and was overwhelmed by the fragile look in Sherlock’s eyes. When he turned back John had crossed his arms and was leaning against the door frame. Greg swallowed hard and turned back towards the kitchen. “Right, I’ll just get some water.” He slid down the hall and passed Sherlock.

Before he could pass Sherlock he felt Sherlock grab his wrist. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Doing what?” Greg asked as he tried to pull out of Sherlock’s grip.

Sherlock dropped the duvet and grabbed Greg’s other wrist, pulling him closer. “He would have killed you.” Sherlock didn’t tower over Greg, but he used the slight height difference to his advantage and crowded into Greg’s space. “You matter.”

“Let him get his water Sherlock.” John took a step forward.

Greg was afraid to look back at John. But Sherlock dropped Greg’s wrists as though he had been scalded. Greg fled into the kitchen, unable to stand the pressure building between the other two men. He turned on the tap and let the cold water run while he pulled down a glass. “Bugger, fuck and shit.” He whispered. He leaned over the counter, pressing his hands into his eyes. He should have left last night, he was going to lose John. There was no way he could compete with Sherlock, not for this. The idea of fighting a losing battle made his stomach turn. He filled the glass and downed it in one go, then held it under the tap and filled it again. He turned back to the hallway, but didn’t look up at either of the two men waiting there. “I’ll just sleep on the sofa for a bit.” He needed distance, to plan out how best to salvage as much as he could of himself.

Sherlock stomped his foot. “John, can’t you see what he is doing? Why doesn’t he see that this is about him too?”

John took another step forward and put his hand on Sherlock’s arm. “Sherlock. Not helping.” He held out his other hand to Greg. “It isn’t morning yet, come back to bed.”

Greg licked his lips and shifted onto the balls of his feet. He wanted to go back to bed, he wanted to curl up next to John and just forget all of the madness in his head. There was something about the presence of Sherlock in the hallway that made him feel out of place. He felt a brief flash of anger, this was his home dammit, he had lived here longer than Sherlock. He had known John longer than Sherlock had too. “He’s mine you know.” It was meant for Sherlock but he was looking at the floor about two feet in front of him.

Sherlock shook John off his arm and took two steps forward. “I. know. you. imbecile.” Sherlock was visibly shaking from the effort he was putting into his words. Sherlock was completely in Greg’s space now, forcing Greg to look up and meet his eyes. 

“You consume him. I will turn around and he will be gone.” Now that Greg had locked eyes with Sherlock it was impossible for him to look away. 

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. His hands rose and hovered just above Greg’s shoulders, restraining himself from grabbing him and shaking him. “Honestly, how can you be so very…” He straightened and tried again “You, both of you, are part of the work. I cannot work without you. I need you, Lestrade, you and John both.”

“You worked for three years without us.”  
“No, Lestrade, I worked for three years for you. Moriarty was gone, but the threat to both of you remained. Moran was very devoted, and he had people watching you…”

Greg pushed through the last little space between them and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. It wasn’t precisely a kiss, more of a shock tactic. Sherlock made a noise of protest and flung his arms wide, pulling away from Greg sharply.

“Oh shut up and come to bed, you daft bastard.” Greg looked past Sherlock at John, hoping he hadn’t just thrown away his entire relationship.

John cleared his throat to cover a laugh. “If I had only thought of that sooner, I could have saved us such difficulties.”

Sherlock looked affronted, “John, I told you, I’m not…” he gestured between Greg and John. “I’m married to the work.”

Greg snorted. “Yes and you’ve just said John and I are the work. So hush now and off to bed with you, your husband has spoken.”

John stepped forward and grabbed one of Sherlock’s hands. “Your husbands have spoken. Come to bed, both of you.” He was grinning ear to ear, as he snatched up Greg’s hand as well. He pulled them both down the hall to their bedroom.


	25. Trust issues - John

Sherlock followed after John, Lestrade behind him with his hand resting lightly on Sherlock’s back. He stopped dead three paces into the room, resisting the pressure of Lestrade’s hand on his back. John felt the resistance and turned back to look at Sherlock.

“Alright?” The expression on John’s face was infuriating, and Sherlock suddenly understood what John had meant all those years ago by “the look.”

“Lestrade kissed me.” Sherlock flinched at the tone of his own voice, slightly shocked and just a bit naive. 

“Yeah, he did.” John rolled his shoulders and his tongue swept across his lips. Holding Sherlock’s gaze.

“And you didn’t stop him.”

John’s gaze shifted to Greg, who was standing slightly behind Sherlock, his hand still resting on Sherlock’s lower back. “Should I have?”

Greg started to pull his hand away from Sherlock, dragging his fingers across and away instead of just pulling back suddenly.

“Isn’t that what people do?”

John closed the distance between them. “I suppose it depends on the people. What do you want Sherlock? I’d rather you didn’t sleep in the hallway, but if that is what you want it is okay. I can go upstairs if you want to stay here with Greg…”

Sherlock made a small pained noise. And John picked up his hand before continuing. “Or Greg will…” John stopped and smiled as Sherlock gave him his “really John now you are just being perverse” look. “So that leaves the three of us sleeping in here.”

If John hadn’t been looking for it he would have missed the flash of panic in Sherlock’s eyes. He wet his lips again. He didn’t think that he was wrong, but he also really didn’t want to be rejected by Sherlock again. He had spent the majority of his time with Sherlock deflecting rumours about them, being his friend, dating women. Eventually he had been able to talk to Ella about his feelings for Sherlock, with quite a bit of help from Greg. He had realized that he had never been able to commit to the women he dated because he was in love with Sherlock, and because Sherlock wasn’t in love with him. Greg had helped him to realize that it was possible to love more than one person at at time, as long as you were honest about it, trying to hide or deny your feelings only lead to jealousy and pain. Greg and Rebecca had divorced because she had excluded him, Greg and John worked because they had included Sherlock, even when he was gone.

“It is fine, Sherlock. We can sleep. Or… not. But we need you to tell us what you want, and you can change your mind, whatever you decided.”

“I just need to know where you are.” Sherlock’s voice was deep but quiet, tentative. The layer of confidence that normally protected him had been peeled away, leaving him raw and exposed.

“So sleeping then.” Greg spoke for the first time since they had entered the room. “I’ll get that pillow then shall I?” He handed his water glass to John and went back out into the hall. Coming back an instant later brushing off the pillow that had been on the floor. He flicked off the light in the hall and plunged the room into darkness. Their eyes adjusted to the faint glow of the streetlight from outside. Greg tossed Sherlock’s pillow into the centre of the bed and retrieved his water glass from John. “If you are in the middle you can tell if we try to scarper in the night.”

Sherlock let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding. He climbed into the bed and settled on his back in the middle, his body rigid, still trying to hold himself away from either side.

John and Greg crossed to their sides of the bed, they didn’t get into bed at the same time. John sagged into the bed first, curling on his right side towards Sherlock without touching him. Greg sat on the edge of the bed and took a sip from the glass before setting it beside his alarm clock, then swinging his legs up onto the bed and curling on his left side. The tension radiating from Sherlock was enough to stop Greg from touching him again, and he sighed as he closed his eyes, pulling the covers up around his shoulders.

Greg could feel some of the tension melt from Sherlock, the warmth of the bed and the darkness of the room easing into him. There was a rustle in the bed clothes and he felt Sherlock’s fingers seeking out his wrist. Judging from John’s intake of breath the same thing had happened on his side of the bed. Greg released his grip on the bed clothes and intertwined his fingers in Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s voice was soft and quiet in the dark. “Closer, please, closer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for sticking with me. I hope you like. 
> 
> I don’t know if it is obvious or not but I have a headcanon that Sherlock knows Lestrade’s name is Greg, but refuses to call him that. So whenever Lestrade is Lestrade we are Sherlock’s Pov, Greg is Greg to himself and John. Because I can’t write in first person, or something. I probably should have mentioned that sooner.


	26. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pov again.

Lestrade had kissed him, and John wasn’t angry. Shouldn’t John be angry? It had been a fairly chaste kiss, perhaps it was merely a tactic on Lestrade’s part, to derail Sherlock and gain control of the situation. Sherlock wants to believe that John understands, that he sees what it means for Sherlock to be back here. He thinks that John does, that the excess of physical contact today has been meant to reassure Sherlock as much as it has John. Sherlock doesn’t know what will happen when the shock wears off and John’s anger returns. 

He could say no, John said he could go back to the hall. He could feel/hear/see the deep sea green drag of Lestrade’s fingers across his back and it was all he could do not to follow that current, to allow his body to float along with Lestrade’s fingers. Maybe John doesn’t understand, why would he want one of them to leave, he’d just been sleeping on the floor in the hall to make sure they didn’t leave. No he’s testing, he’s making sure. John knows, even when Sherlock himself isn’t sure why, or how.

Lestrade is gone suddenly, but John is holding him there, an anchor. The pillow from John’s room upstairs is added to the centre of their bed. And there is a complicated ritual of passing back and forth a water glass. Sherlock moves forward on his own, climbing up onto the bed, there is no elegant way to do this so he just crawls over the sheets on John’s side of the bed. 

As soon as he is flat on his back he realizes what he has done. There is no going back from this, more than telling them they matter, more than telling them they are the work. This is dangerous, this cannot be changed or undone with more words. And he is putting them in danger again, Moriarty’s network wasn’t actually that extensive. He was more of a contractor than an employer and the only two men who had posed a direct threat to Lestrade and John are dead. But Moriarty wasn’t the only one to hold a grudge against Sherlock, any number of petty criminals could seek to use his relationships against him. 

As they settled around him he fought the urge to bolt from the bed. They both turned towards him, but there was a gap, a distance of no more than an hands-breadth. Even though it was obvious from the wear pattern in the mattress beneath him that Lestrade customarily slept close to John. He swallowed, tension melting away. They knew, they knew what they meant to him but they would always give him a way out. Because they knew him, better than he knew himself it would seem. 

Sherlock shifted carefully, his fingers bridging the gaps that they had left. John’s intake of breath wasn’t sharp, but hopeful. And Lestrade’s sigh was accepting. Sherlock tangled his fingers in theirs before swallowing again, determined that his voice would not crack. He was unaccustomed to needing, and even more so to asking for something that he needed. But he did need this, he’d spent three years needing it without really knowing.

“Closer, please, closer.”

Both men unwound from themselves, curling up around him instead. Lestrade’s arm smoothed across his chest, his fingers curling over Sherlock’s opposite shoulder. John’s arm slid across his stomach, catching in a fold of Sherlock’s t-shirt. Sherlock felt himself go boneless in their embrace. He was pinned and trapped and completely safe all at once. 

He sighed and turned his head slightly towards Lestrade as he felt his consciousness recede as sleep claimed him. The last thing he remembered before sleep rolled over him was thinking “Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This feels like a good place to end.   
> Without ending, because I have plans for the morning.
> 
> Love and kisses to all who made it this far. Sorry for the CHEESY ending. 
> 
> Please leave comments, suggestions, complaints or kudos. Just so I know that you are out there and I'm not just speaking into the void.


End file.
